Blight-Queller
by lepolemicist
Summary: Grand Inquisitor, you accuse me of committing an atrocity, unrivalled in depravity since the Magi stormed the Golden City! I say that I stole the secrets of blood magic from the demons of the fade; I scaled the Tower of Ishal to grasp victory against the darkspawn at Ostagar; I slew the Archdemon with my magic to quell the blight itself. What need have I to defend myself?
1. Chapter 1 - Fire from the Gods

.  
Summary:  
Grand Inquisitor, you accuse me of committing an atrocity,  
unrivalled in depravity since the Magi stormed the Golden City!  
I say that I stole the secrets of blood magic from the demons of the fade;  
I scaled the Tower of Ishal to grasp victory against the darkspawn at Ostagar;  
I slew the Archdemon with my magic to quell the blight itself.  
At this farce of a trial, what more of a defence do I need,  
but my deeds themselves?

**Blight-Queller  
**_Chapter 1  
_Fire from the Gods

-(=DAO=)-

There is a city, dead and broken and shattered by blight and blood magic.

In the city, there is a room, vast and dark and silent.

In the room, there is a man being tried for a crime so heinous it is yet without a name.

-(=DAO=)-

Grand Inquisitor, you have asked me many questions today, made many accusations, and needled me with many more insinuations. And I promise you that I will answer each and every one of them – questions and accusations and insinuations all. You need only listen to a story – my story – for without said story you will not understand the nature and the necessity of the tragedy that befell Denerim.

-(=DAO=)-

Where should we begin? This is a difficult question. Perhaps it will be best to start with my name.

Names are important. They tell you something of a man.

There are many different kinds of names.

There is the given name. It is the name given to you by your parents. It is the name that you yourself use, the name that is imprinted upon your soul, the name that never fails to turn your head when called.

Then there is the chosen name. It is the name you give yourself. It is the name that tells others of who you aspire to be, and of what you dream to do.

And finally there is the nickname, the sobriquet, the epithet. It is the name that others give you. In many ways it is the most important kind of name, for it shows who you are, and what you have done.

-(=DAO=)-

My given name is Amell. That's what I have always called myself, and it's what my friends call me, but strictly speaking, it's not my given name, as such. Amell is my family name. The Amells are – were? – a noble family based in Kirkwall. My great-uncle, Lord Aristide Amell, was in line to become Viscount of Kickwell. Alas, for my great-uncle's ambitions and my family's social standing, I was born! I exhibited magical abilities shortly after my birth, and everything that followed that revelation was as cruel as it was predictable. I was taken from my parents, and given over to the Ferelden Circle of Magi.

And so, first and foremost, I am a mage. I love magic more than life itself. It is the light of my life, the fire in my heart. My sin, my soul.

Forgive me if you think this unseemly, maudlin sentimentality, or if you think my waxing lyrical about magic is inappropriate in light of recent events in Denerim. I am merely trying to make you understand how important magic is to me.

Magic is simply part of who I am. I live it, and breathe it. Doing magic brings me a joy that I can only describe as _elemental_. No pun intended.

So imagine what it feels like to be part of the Circle of Magi. We are always under the vigilant, watchful eyes of the Templars. They are ever ready, ready to strike, to kill us for no crime but that of existing. We live in a prison, and in that prison we have no freedom, for the Templars are always there to punish deviancy, whatever the hell that is. The joy that we get from doing magic is always corrupted. We can never explore our natural talents to their unadulterated, absolute maximum, given that ever-present fear that we will be branded _maleficar_. Even the intimate relationships we mages have are haunted by the fear of losing our loved ones to arbitrary accusations of apostasy.

You can tell that I strongly hate and mistrust the institution that is the Circle. It is a yoke that I have always longed to throw off for myself. Since my childhood, I have had fantasies of escaping the Circle Tower.

Slowly, but surely, a plan of escape emerged. It came about after years and years of discreet, meticulous research. The goal: to escape the Circle. Complication: the Templars keep phylacteries – vials of blood of all the magi – with which they can use to track down and kill any escapees. The system is foolproof – you might fight off one templar, or two, or three, or a dozen. But eventually you will be overwhelmed, and killed. Nor is constant running a solution. They will run you into the ground, like dogs. An elf named Aneirin holds the current record – of distance from the Circle Tower before being found and killed. He managed to make it all the way to the Brecilian Forest, before the Templars cut him down.

So, I had to destroy my phylactery. Thankfully, as an apprentice mage, my own phylactery was held at the Circle Tower itself. A full mage would have his phylactery stored at Denerim, and all the First Enchanters – all the leaders of any potential mage rebellion – would have theirs guarded in the Templar stronghold at the White Spire in Orlais. So as a mere apprentice, reaching and destroying my phylactery was comparatively easier – but still unfathomably difficult. To get into the phylactery chamber, located in the basement of the Circle Tower, you would have to get through a door immune to magic. I won't go into the details of the enchantments, but suffice to say they were old, and they were comprehensive. Destroying them was not possible, even for a prodigiously talented apprentice mage like myself. The only feasible way through the door was to unlock it manually. There are two keys; one held by First Enchanter Irving; the other held by Knight-Commander Greagoir.

Obtaining and making a copy of the First Enchanter's key wasn't too difficult. I was Irving's personal apprentice, after all. I spent quite a lot of time in his office, and knew a lot of his habits and routines. With a bit of effort and subterfuge, I managed to obtain and duplicate his key. The Knight-Commander's key, however, was a different kettle of fish. Being the paranoid bastard that he was, he carried the key with him everywhere he went, and slept with it too. He was no less vulnerable while sleeping, for as Knight-Commander he was always under personal guard by at least one templar.

The solution I came up with was ultimately blood magic. I would control Knight-Commander Greagoir, take his key, enter the phylactery chamber and destroy all the vials there, before making my escape. Templars – especially an old, seasoned hand like Greagoir – are highly resistant to magic, but against blood magic there is no defence. There is a reason why the Tevinter Imperium managed to conquer the world using blood magic. There is a reason why blood magic is feared and hated throughout the known world. There is a reason why the Templars are utterly ruthless in stamping out the art. And all those reasons brought me to the conclusion that blood magic would buy me my freedom.

Evil? Spare me your hypocritical judgements, Grand Inquisitor. Why should a slave empathize with the slaver? If I had to bathe in the blood of ever Templar in the tower to get my freedom, I would have gladly done so.

-(=DAO=)-

But I see I have piqued your interest with my mention of blood magic. Fair enough. Blood magic, is, after all, the reason why Denerim is the haunted ruin it is today. So let me explain and explicate the nature of blood magic.

There are many misconceptions about blood magic, but the first and greatest is the utterly preposterous belief that blood magic is about the manipulation of blood. No. A thousand times, no. People who think that the art is connected to manipulating blood are mentally-challenged ignoramuses.

Blood magic is about the manipulation of the mind. By manipulating one's own mind, one can increase the amount of magical energy that one can channel from the Fade. By manipulating the minds of others and using them as conduits, you can draw even greater magical energy out of the Fade, into the material world. But the most important consequence of all this is that you can better access the Fade, from which you can touch the minds of others, and do unpleasant things like setting afire every nerve in their body, and putting them in the most agonizing pain imaginable. And of course, such access to the Fade allows for blood magic's signature, flagship ability – mentally controlling others.

Blood magic is dangerous. That much is true. Extended and repeated channelling of the raw fade turns you insane. In fact, that was the very reason the Tevinter Mages turned to using slaves as sacrifices, using their minds as expendable channelling fonts – the mages themselves were either mad, or trying to avoid madness. And that – the use of human sacrifices – along with the manipulation of others' minds, raises a whole hornet's nest of ethical issues. Blood magic is dangerous, and in many cases, its use is not merely illegal but immoral. That much I will not deny.

Why is blood magic named as such, if blood isn't actually involved? It's a matter of historical dispute. The traditionalist view is that the overuse of blood magic and the channelling of too much magical energy bring the risk of aneurysm, with visible bleeding from the eyes and nose and mouth of a blood mage not uncommon. The revisionists say it is because slaves marked for sacrifice were often cut up and given non-fatal wounds – to weaken their mental fortitude and make them more susceptible to mental manipulations. The post-revisionist view is the simplest, and most poetic, I think – blood magic got its name because its practitioners were often mad psychopaths with the bad habit of killing people through bloody means. Take your pick.

There were many blood covens in the Circle Tower, as I later found out. I never joined up with any of them, of course. For one, I didn't know that they existed, though I always had my suspicions. Secondly, there was no way to find and contact another blood mage. How would you go about it? Who could you trust? Who would you approach? One wrong word, to the wrong person, in the wrong place, and you would die by the Templar's cold, steel blade.

Why trust people, when you can trust books instead? Of course, blood magic is highly illegal, and its books banned. Still you can't outlaw everything, and there were books, especially the ones only marginally about blood magic, that escaped the Circle's censorship. From these precious books, and with my own immodest abilities, I managed to learn a significant amount of blood magic. Enough to channel the raw fade, through myself or through others, and enough to let me do rudimentary mental manipulations like triggering seizures in the nervous system.

But I could never find or extrapolate the secret I most desired – mind control. The single, most powerful magic in the world. The key to a successful escape attempt from the circle. I was determined to obtain it. So I resolved to do what the Magi of old did, and enter the Fade and learn blood magic from the immortals themselves.

-(=DAO=)-

Ah, is that a look of unmitigated disgust on your face, Grand Inquisitor? Consorting with demons? True, though I must say, I've done worse than _consort with demons_. But do me the favour of ceasing your petty moralizing, at least until my tale is over.

Where was I?

Yes – I wanted to steal fire from the Gods. The first of the magus cast themselves deep in the Fade in search of answers and power, always power. I would do the same, and delve into the Fade to find a demon, and obtain from it the secrets I desired.

The more I thought about it, the more attracted I was to the idea, like a moth to a naked flame. It wasn't just that I wanted my freedom; it wasn't just that I wanted the power of blood magic; it was more than that. I wanted to do something great, something significant, something incredible. Something difficult, that would prove my mettle.

Do you understand what's I'm saying? Do you understand that drive to do something that might be construed as reckless, just so to prove that you can do it? Do you understand that need to _transcend_?

Regardless.

The Fade is the metaphysical realm of magic, the land of will and power, the dream that never ends. It is hard to explain to a non-mage such as yourself, but I will try.

It is the Fade from which all magic derives. A mage has a special connection to the Fade, and from the Fade a mage can draw magical energy with which to do spells.

All sentient creatures are connected to the Fade, but can only enter the Fade unconsciousness, unintentionally – while dreaming. The dwarves, through long exposure to lyrium and thanks to genetic quirks, have lost their connection to the Fade, and thus do not dream, nor can they use magic, but in compensation they do have greater magical resistance. As an interesting aside, dwarves who live on the surface tend to lose, over time, that magical resistance. It has been theorized by a very clever dwarven friend of mine, that in the long run dwarves can even re-establish their connection to the Fade. They will acquire magic, and will be able to dream again.

But I digress.

The important thing about the Fade which ever child knows, is that it is populated by spirits. There are the benevolent spirits, not averse to helping humans or magi lost in the Fade. Then there are the wisps, weak spirits that do nothing and are of not much interest to anyone. And then there are the demons.

Lord and Masters of the Fade, they embody the darker parts of our psyche. Lust. Gluttony. Greed. Sloth. Wrath. Envy. Pride. The emotions the Chantry calls the seven deadly sins.

Demons seek to enter the material world. Mages make tempting targets, given their preternatural connection to the Fade. A demon that possesses a mage becomes an abomination. Demons can also possess the dead, giving rise to revenants, possessed corpses, animated skeletons, and all matters of unpleasant, shambling things. That said, demons do not need hosts to enter the material world – they can be shades, shadowy creatures that are the naked forms of demons without a host.

But I am preaching to the choir, of course. You, Grand Inquisitor, will know all that, and more.

So let me tell you something about demons that you most certainly did not know.

Demons are, in most relevant aspects, identical to humans. They have motivations, beliefs and their powers, though great, are limited. And thus, they can be negotiated and bartered with. They can be tricked and deceived. They have weaknesses that can be exploited, as their very names like _pride_ or _lust_ remind us. All that is possible, of that I assure you.

Is this so surprising? Demons are the pale reflections of the minds of people. They are the shadows of our sapience. They are echoes of our desires and ignorance and weaknesses. They are the children of men, and are just as flawed and exploitable as we are.

Understand this. I do not fear the demons. Respect them, yes. Treat them with the appropriate caution, always. Prepare carefully for any possible confrontation, of course. But fear? Never.

The demon I sought was Superbia. _Pride_, in the Old Tongue. What a wonderfully apposite name, for the oldest and greatest of the Pride demons. More commonly, he is just known as the Formless One, for his abilities to shapeshift. And that, by the way, betrays his incredible might. Shapeshifting is not uncommon in the Fade, but shapeshifters tend to be limited to one form – a form that reflects their personality. To have mastery over a thousand and one forms, as Superbia does, shows a complete mastery of the Fade and all its magics.

I sought him out, rather than the other legendary demons like Xebenkeck, Imshael and Gaxkang. The reason for this is rather simple – Superbia is unlike the other demons, in that his pride is a complex one.

If you would excuse some philosophizing – the ancient philosophers distinguished between two kinds of pride. One kind of pride is _nobility_ – thinking oneself worthy and capable of great things. The other kind of pride is _hubris_ – thinking oneself superior by tearing others down, and shaming them for your own gratification.

Most Pride demons are of the latter kind, more interested in destruction and showing their own superiority.

Not Superbia. His pride is of the former – pride that comes from being confident in one's own abilities.

The Formless One understands that magnanimity is part of true greatness. Lesser demons might lash out in fits of destruction, to soothe their insecure pride. Greater demons, assured in their own power, feel no need for such childish antics, and are not averse to acts of generosity.

And thus, Superbia has always taught magic to those who came seeking. All you need to do is to pass his tests, and show yourself worthy of being his student. Though he is recorded as killing those who fail him and his tests, I was confident in my abilities. I was, if nothing else, a brilliant student.

All this I learnt through books from the Circle's Library. Books on the Fade experienced far less censorship than books on blood magic proper. After all, the Fade is the source of magic, and to try to criminalize books on the topic would be to criminalize the study of magic itself. Even the Templars, with all their ruthless zealotry, did not think to do that.

Or perhaps all those books, especially the ones on demons, were left there on purpose. Perhaps they were meant as a warning to young, ambitious magi such as myself. They all tell stories, of mages who tried to steal fire from the gods and got burnt to ashes for their pride. History was rife with examples of mages who tried to make deals with demons, only to get tricked and possessed. In my arrogance, I thought myself invincible, exempt from the laws of history. I thought myself sure to succeed.

And I did, but almost at the cost of my life.

-(=DAO=)-

On the summer solstice of the thirtieth year of the Dragon Age, I used liquid lyrium to breach the Veil, and crossed into the Fade for the first time.

Entering the Fade, I found myself in a warped version of the courtyard outside the Circle Tower. The buildings were in ruins, the statues had grown various additional appendages, and the trees were twisted. I had expected this, but it was still unsettling. You see, the Fade is the realm of dreams, and it draws upon your experiences and emotions in constructing itself. There was symbolism everwhere. The courtyard – to me, who have lived my whole life imprisoned in the Circle, it represented the outside world and the promise of freedom. Meanwhile, everything was strange and sinister, because I was feeling apprehensive – understandable, I'm sure you agree, since I was about to confront a demon.

Beyond my immediate surroundings, the Fade was... awesome. Awesome and overwhelming and sinister, and a thousand other things. Looking up, you see neither sun nor moon nor stars, but the sky is nonetheless lit, with a soft, green glow. All around, rocks float in mid-air, in apparent defiance of the laws of nature. And looking down into the depths, you see the churning, howling blackness of a primeval ocean. It was an abyss that one dared not stare into for too long, less it ate you. No, I'm not joking.

And in the distance, you see _it_, floating, the only constant landmark in the Fade. Far away, but not so far. Near, but never near enough to see clearly. The Black City, once golden, but corrupted when the Magi invaded it. A place where even the demons fear to tread.

The Fade is an wondrous, terrifying place, is it not? But all I have described is but half of the story.

Here is the other half – the Fade is not just what is seen, but what is felt. It takes some time for you to be aware, but then it hits you. That nagging sensation you had all along? That eerie sense of being watched? That sense that there was someone nearby, though no one is visible? It all comes to together, when you realize that the Fade is alive, and aware, and pulsing with intentionality. The Fade is, first and foremost, a macrocosm of the mind. It is realm of dreams, and here, everything is determined by the will, not by natural laws.

Keep that fact in mind. For something to happen in the Fade, all you need to do is to will it to be.

Do you recall that I told you, at the beginning of my story, that names are important? Yes? Good, because that is especially true in the Fade. To speak of, or even think deeply about a name, is to call to and summon the creature thus named. Hence the taboo against speaking the names of demons, even in the material world – the ancients learnt the hard way, that it was folly to Name creatures powerful enough to rip your soul apart.

I did it anyway.

I spoke clearly, enunciating the ancient demon's name. I concentrated my thoughts on the demon itself, and _willed_ myself to find him.

The Fade blurred before my eyes, like a ripples formed by a stone thrown into a pond. After a short while, the rippling resolved.

I was standing on a snowy precipice of a mountain, just below the summit itself. Above me, the clear blue sky stretched as far as the eye could see, the Black City the only visible blemish. Below, a sheer drop to the valleys beneath. It was breath-taking. I think I could have stood there for an eternity, marvelling at the beauty of it all.

It occurred to me then, that it had to have been a truly mighty demon that could shape the landscape of the Fade, from one horizon to the next.

But the time for hesitance and second-thoughts was over. I turned away from the cliff, and made my way up the short, steep road to the summit.

On the summit, there was a throne, as large as a small house.

And on the throne, there sat a demon. It was coloured the deep purple of a fresh dawn. Enormous, ridiculously muscled, and spiked all over, it had a tremendous physical presence. But what was really unsettling was that you could feel, radiating out from the demon, a harsh pride and the terrible power to back that pride up.

This was a creature that thought itself equal to the world.

Perhaps it was.

Fear and apprehension crept up on me, but I blanked my mind and forced myself to concentrate only on the task at hand. There was no room for fear. Fear corrodes your will. It feeds the very demons you mean to oppose. In the Fade, fear is death. I banished mine as best I could, and settled my mind into a tranquillity my heart did not feel.

I stepped forward, greeted the demon lord, and explained my purpose.

The demon was silent for a few moments that seemed like an eternity, before speaking, in a voice deep and deadly.

"_Mage. Pass three tests of my devising, and I will teach you the secrets you desire. Fail, and I will eat you alive. Do you understand?_"

I noted to myself that he was asking for my understanding, not for my compliance. Having approached him, there was no backing out now. Still, I understood that from the beginning.

I assured him that I understood the terms.

"_Then let us begin._"

-(=DAO=)-

"_This is the Test of Desire._"

I was in a dark forest. Looking up, I could see blue sky and a steep mountainside. We were still in Superbia's domain – at the bottom of a valley. Superbia was nowhere in sight, though I could feel his presence and his voice echoed in the clearing that I was in. There was nothing of interest here, save for a tall torch mounted in the middle of the clearing. Even from a distance away, I could feel the heat of the fire.

"_This test is as simple as it is fundamental._"

"_You will put your hand into the fire, and grasp firmly the rims of the torch. You will do that for a minute, and not a second less. You are not allowed any mental trickery – there will be no pretending that the fire is anything but a fire._

"_Let us see how badly you desire the secrets of magic, Mage._"

I admit, I was relieved. I was worried that Superbia might have decided upon a far more difficult test, but this – this was easy.

Let me explain.

My main competency as a Mage is _Elementalism_. I study and control the elements – ice and fire, lighting and earth. In combat, I rely primarily on generating flames, and manipulating the cold.

And the first truth that any _Elementalist_ mage learns, is that you cannot, _ever_, be afraid of the elements you seek to command. You want to call down fire and lighting on your enemies? You want to shatter them with the power of winter, or to have the earth itself swallow them whole? Fine. Just be sure that the things you seek to master, have no mastery over you. Thus, the very first lesson we undergo, is what the Enchanters call the _Test of the Burning Branch_. Colloquially, we mage apprentices called it _Sado-Masochism_, or simply, _Fucking Retarded_.

It's quite simple. You take a tree branch, you light it on fire using mundane means like poking it into the hearth, and then you put a finger into the flame.

The trick, as all apprentices learn, is not to somehow stop the fire from hurting you. The trick, as it were, is to not let the pain bother you.

So I reached out to the torch, put my hand into the licking flames, and gripped the rims of the torch. A part of my brain noted that this exposed the palm of your hand, maximizing the surface area to be blistered and burnt by the fire. For a minute, I let my hand be roasted.

How did it feel like? Well, it was painful. You could say it was excruciating.

That said, my hand wasn't injured, physically. After all, we were in the Fade. It wasn't air we were breathing, or ground we were standing upon, nor was it an actual fire burning my real hand.

What was real was the pain – your mind tricks you into thinking that the fire is real, and presto! the pain is real as well. There are, of course, ways to avoid that. It's not terribly difficult to remind your mind that it is all a dream, an insubstantial illusion. And as your ignorance slips away, so too does the pain.

But Superbia had warned me against such "mental trickery". The test wasn't about how well I could manipulate the Fade – it was about how deeply and sincerely I wanted to learn the secrets of blood magic from him.

Well, I wanted that – badly. I wanted my freedom, I wanted blood magic, and most particularly I wanted to do something as notable as learning magic from the demons. No mere fire, and no mere pain, would get in my way.

I told Superbia as much, and he laughed, a deep, rather disturbing laugh that echoed through the clearing.

"_Fine. You pass the first, and easiest test, Mage. We shall proceed to the second._"

-(=DAO=)-

"_This is the Test of Wit._"

Again, I was still within Superbia's domain, as the blue sky above made it clear. This time, however, I was on a sharp outcrop of rock some way up the mountain. There wasn't any snow, for we were not anywhere near the summit, but it was still a dizzying drop to the ground below. Superbia was once again not physically present, and was just a disembodied voice echoing off the mountain.

"_As the test before was straightforward, this test will be complex._

"_Follow the trail out from this outcrop, and head up the mountain. You will encounter other demons. Deal with them as you must. When you have passed the Test, you will know it, and I will appear to you to signal its end._

"_Keep your wits about you, Mage._"

I looked around, and saw only one path out of the outcrop. I headed for that path, and started the trek up.

By and large, nothing happened. I paid especial attention to walking, to be sure I did not slip and fall. In real life, the trek would have been tiring, especially for a rather unfit bookworm such as myself, but in the Fade muscles mean nothing – all you had to do to avoid fatigue was to understand – truly understand – that it was all a dream, albeit a very life-like one.

After some ten minutes of walking, I came across a mouse. I was instantly on my guard. Things in the Fade are not as they seem.

Then it started speaking.

"Someone else thrown to the wolves. As fresh and unprepared as ever.

"It isn't right that they do this, the templars. Not to you, me, anyone."

While I was merely cautious before, when the mouse began talking, my paranoia became fully engaged, and I was ready to obliterate the talking animal with all the magic at my disposal. The mouse was obviously a shapeshifter, and I would have a fight on my hands if this were a demon out to kill me and possess my body.

Little did I know the truth.

In any case, I asked the shapeshifter what he wanted.

"Ah. I suppose you would be more comfortable with my true form."

Having said that, the mouse started glowing, and morphed into a man wearing mage robes.

"Allow me to welcome you to the Fade. You can call me... well, Mouse."

Warily, I asked if he were once an apprentice mage who failed his Harrowing.

The Harrowing is a test that most apprentice mages are made to go through by the Circle. If you pass the test, you become a mage, and a full member of the Circle of Magi. If you fail, you will die. You can refuse to undergo the Harrowing, but the price of that is being made Tranquil. Sometimes, when an apprentice mage is deemed too deviant or too dangerous, they will not even have the chance to undergo the Harrowing – Tranquillity is forced upon them.

And what is a Tranquil? The name sounds nice, and peaceful, and gentle, does it not? But it is anything but that. Being made Tranquil involves severing a Mage's connection to the Fade, with the consequence that the Mage cannot be possessed by demons, nor do magic, nor feel any emotions. It is horrible fate. It is the ultimate evil. Grand Inquisitor, your Chantry, hypocrites that you are, decry blood magic, but how is the Rite of Tranquillity any better? Indeed, most blood magic only kills or enslaves; the Rite, without fail, destroys a fundamental part of your _humanity_.

Do you honestly believe that it is a necessary evil?

Truly?

Then perhaps we two are not so very different after all.

But that is not to the point. We are not debating ethics, though that is a favourite pastime of mine. Let us return to the topic at hand.

The Harrowing – the test itself involves ingesting liquid lyrium and entering the Fade. In the Fade, you will confront a demon, summoned by the senior mages, who promise it the chance to possess a mage's body. The test is designed to root out mages who are not strong enough to resist demonic possession. If you best the demon, you keep your life and are promoted past apprenticeship. If you fail, as many do, then you become an abomination, which the vigilant templars will then destroy.

Lambs to the slaughter.

Of course, the Harrowing is meant to be top secret. Still, you can't stop everyone who has undergone to Harrowing from talking – that would basically be every Mage in the Circle, ever. It wasn't difficult to discover everything about the Harrowing that I wanted to know.

Incidentally, it was my own Harrowing that pushed me to make my journey into the Fade at the summer solstice. It is customary that apprentices are not made to undergo the Harrowing until they reach eighteen and thus the age of consent – so that they'll be consenting adults capable of "agreeing" to the test or to the Rite of Tranquillity.

Harrowings are sometimes delayed by a few years, if the senior enchanters do not think an apprentice ready for the test.

I, on the other hand – and here, let me put aside all false modesty – was a prodigy, and Irving's own favoured apprentice. He would let me take the test as soon as possible, which would be my birthday in early winter. Naturally, failure was not an option, and I would be forced to pass the Harrowing with flying colours. And then my Phylactery would be sent to Denerim, out of my grasp forever. So, I didn't have much time to prepare, and I had to complete my journey into the Fade as soon as possible.

Ironically, it was my Harrowing that allowed me to do so much research on the Fade and demons. Irving indulged me, and lent me a lot of books I would not otherwise have managed to obtain. He doubtlessly thought I had resourcefully found out about the Harrowing, and was secretly studying and preparing for it, so he tried to help as best as he could.

He was like a father to me.

Do I want to say more?

No.

Let us avoid going on too many tangents. To return to the topic of the second test, the Test of Wit: I suspected Mouse to be an apprentice that had failed his own Harrowing.

What reason did I have to believe such a thing? Well, for one, he wore mage robes, and spoke and acted like an apprentice. Secondly, mages can remain in the Fade, mentally, even as their physical bodies are destroyed. And thirdly, his shapeshifting form was that of a mouse. As I've mentioned before, shapeshifters in the Fade tend to turn into animals that reflect their personalities. A person's shapeshifted form being a mouse – that shows that the person _thinks_ of themselves as a mouse. It suggests that they are cowardly, more inclined to hide than fight. No demon would ever take such a pathetic form, let alone the demons of Pride and Envy – the ones most likely to try to deceive humans in the Fade. From all these subtle clues and pieces of information, I deduced that he was what he seemed to be – a mage apprentice who ran away from the demon during his Harrowing, following which the Templars destroyed his body, for fear it would be possessed.

I thought I was so clever, to have deduced so much from so little.

That was my first error in judgement.

Regardless, Mouse answered my query.

"Yes, I... I did undergo the Harrowing. It's fuzzy, that time before. They wake you up in the middle of the night and drag you to the Harrowing chamber and then...

"The templars kill you if you take too long, you see. They figure you failed, and they don't want something getting out.

"That's what they did to me, I think. I have no body to reclaim. And you don't have much time before you end up the same."

So, Mouse was apparently mistaken about why I was in the Fade – he thought that I was undergoing my own Harrowing. I did not bother correcting his misunderstanding – I could use some help, and regardless, there was nothing that I could do for Mouse himself, if his physical body really was destroyed.

Mouse agreed to help me as best he could, by scouting out ahead. We continued our walk up the steep mountain trail, Mouse always ahead by some distance, to forewarn me of any danger.

Eventually, we reached another small outcrop of rock. On it, there was a sloth demon, lazing about, in the form of a Bereskarn – a bear corrupted by the blight. Spiked and bloody, it looked a cross between a bear and a porcupine. Unlike Superbia, who radiated pride, this one just... gave off the sense of utter laziness.

I was ready for it – Mouse had alerted me sometime before hand, that there was a demon waiting.

"_Hmm... so you are the mortal being hunted? And the small one... is he to be a snack for me?_"

"I don't like this. He's not going to help us. We should go..."

Mouse, who had turned back into his human form, was obviously apprehensive about the demon. I, on the other hand, was intrigued by what the sloth demon said. From his words, I judged that there was another demon somewhere in the area, ready to attack me. That demon would be the true test, and this sloth demon was a mere distraction. It seemed too lazy to even bother doing what demons were supposed to do – attack and possess mages.

"_No matter. The demon will get you, eventually, and perhaps there will even be scraps left._"

I asked the sloth demon what he knew of his compatriot, the one ostensibly hunting me. Every bit of information is useful in combating a demon. In response, however, the great demonic bear simply laughed. His was a throaty, gruff laugh – not as disturbing as Superbia's, but still, it was unsettling.

"_I know that you will fail your test and he will eat you._

"_Begone! Surely you have better things to do than bother Sloth, mortal. I tire of you already._"

I wasn't about to give up wheedling him for information. I repeated my request for advice.

"_You look powerful enough. Why would you need my advice? Go, use your magic since you are so... proud of it._"

Mouse chipped in.

"He looks powerful. It might be possible that he could... teach you to be like him."

"_Like me? You mean teach the mortal to take this form? Why? Most mortals are too attached to their forms to learn the change._

"_You, on the other hand, little one, might be a better student. You let go of the human form years ago._"

"I... don't think I'd make a very good bear. How would I hide?"

Mouse's spinelessness was starting to annoy me. Hiding doesn't solve anything. We had to face our fears, and I reminded Mouse of that.

"'_We?_' I have faced more in this place than you can imagine. Fear is... just one more thing.

"But... you are right. Hiding doesn't help. I'm sorry, it's the Fade. It changes you.

"I'll try. I'll try to be a bear. If you'll teach me."

"_That's nice. But teaching is so exhausting. Away with you now._"

Mouse sighed in exasperation.

"_I told you he wasn't going to help us._"

I cajoled the demon, asking him to teach Mouse, since Mouse was willing to learn. I reminded him that the idea was his, in the first place.

"_You wish me to teach my form, mortal? Then I have a challenge for you: Answer three riddles correctly, and I will teach your little friend._

"_Fail, and I will devour you both. The decision is yours._"

At that instance, I thought I had finally understood the second test. It was supposed to be a test of wit, and by answering the demon's riddles, I would be proving my wit, just as I had proved my resolve in the first test.

That was my second error in judgement.

In any case, I accepted the challenge.

"_Truly? This gets more and more promising._

"_My first riddle is this: I have seas with no water, coasts with no sand, towns without people, mountains without land. What am I?_"

Ha. That was easy. A map, what else?

The sloth demon harrumphed, seemingly put off by the ease with which I answered his riddle.

"_Correct. Let's move on._

"_The second riddle: I'm rarely touched, but often held. If you have wit, you'll use me well. What am I?_"

This one was harder. But after some thought, I found the answer: my tongue. The riddle was pretty clever – a riddle about a riddle.

"_Yes, your witty tongue. Fair enough. One more try, shall we?_

"_Often will I spin a tale, never will I charge a fee. I'll amuse you an entire eve, but, alas, you won't remember me. What am I?"_

A dream. I answered the sloth demon's third and final riddle.

Again, it harrumphed. It seemed quite fond of doing that.

"_You are correct. Rather apropos here in the Fade, no?_

"_But you've won my challenge and proven yourself an amusing distraction. So, I shall teach you my form. Now listen carefully..._"

I won't bore you with the details of how Mouse learnt to shapeshift. Suffice to say, it involved willpower, and imagining yourself as the animal you want to change into. Mouse successfully learnt the transformation, and we were quickly on our way again.

Finally, we reached another rocky outcrop. It was relatively large, and ringed by circles of fire. In the centre of that ring of fire, was a demon of rage. Red and burning, it looked like a posturing piece of lava. It radiated malice, and rage, as was typical of its kind.

I was ready for it – Mouse had again alerted me in advance of a demon's presence.

"_And so it comes to me at last._

"_Soon I shall see the land of the living with your eyes, creature. You shall be mine, body and soul._"

Idle threats. I told the demon that it was welcome to try my power, if it dared.

"_Oh, I shall._

"_So this creature is your offering, Mouse? Another plaything, as per out arrangement?_"

Betrayal! My eyes, which had been fixed on the demon up till that point, darted away to glance at Mouse, before I forced myself to concentrate on the demon again. It was foolish to get distracted at this stage.

"I'm not offering you anything! I don't have to help you anymore!"

I admit, I was caught off guard. My assumptions about Mouse were wrong – he was not merely an apprentice mage lost in the Fade. He had obviously done sinister things – betrayed others to this demon of rage.

"_Aww. And after all those wonderful meals we have shared? Now suddenly the mouse has changed the rules?_"

"I'm not a mouse now! And soon I won't have to hide! I don't need to bargain with you!"

No matter. None of it mattered. My spells were ready, and I could destroy Mouse as easily as I could destroy the demon of rage. I thought that Mouse's deception was inconsequential.

That was my third error in judgement

Still, I was rightly confident in the two spells I had prepared, and in their ability to bring me victory. The spells were: _Spell Might_, and _Mana Clash_. Allow me to explain what they do, and therefore, why I was so confident in my success.

_Spell Might_, back in the material world, allows a mage to draw much greater power from the Fade then they would otherwise be able to. You might ask: How is this different from blood magic?

Think of it this way. Imagine a mage's link to the Fade as an aqueduct, and the water that runs in it, as magical energy. The more the water, the greater the amounts of magical energy available to the mage for spellcasting. What blood magic does is to forcibly widen the aqueduct pipe, no matter the stress exerted on and damage done to the aqueduct itself. And since, in our analogy, the aqueduct is basically a mage's mind... well, brain damage and loss of sanity are concerns.

_Spell Might_ is nothing like this.

To use the same analogy: what Spell Might does is to force the water in the aqueduct to flow faster. Or, to move away from the analogy – a mage using _Spell Might_ will allocate some of his magical energy to increase the rate of flow of magical energy in from the Fade. On the whole, this makes a greater amount of magical energy available, strengthening one's spells, without invoking all those complications and dangers that blood magic is infamous for.

In the Fade, using Spell Might is easy, trivially so. It's like filling a bucket with water when you have already dived deep into the sea. All you need to do is gather the magical energy around you, and direct it.

As for _Mana Clash_ – in all truth, this spell is much more like blood magic than _Spell Might_.

I say this because _Mana Clash_ is fatal to the targets it is used on, and it is almost impossible to defend against.

What _Mana Clash_ does is to seize the magical energy within a target, and cause it to erupt in a volatile, magical conflagration. It turns the target's own magical powers against them, and as you can imagine, it is supremely effective against any being capable of magic, whether mage or demon. And in the Fade – where everything is composed of magical energy – there is no better spell to use in a fight.

Certainly, the spell is dangerous. Any mage can use it to kill another mage. It is certainly a spell restricted only to full mages, though I managed to learn it from one of the books Irving lent me. He was rather lax with the rules, wanting to help his favourite student pass his Harrowing. When you want to destroy a demon, _Mana Clash_ is the first, last and only spell you will ever need.

So I cast _Mana Clash_, my own magical energies backed by the use of _Spell Might_. I was careful to include Mouse in the radius of the spell, along with the demon of rage.

The result was impressive in its anticlimactic nature. There was a flare of blue light, and the demon of rage disappeared. I knew – I saw – that the demon's consciousness had been torn into infinite, innumerable pieces, and dissolved back into sea of magical energy that was the Fade. It was as dead as anything could be. Still, I felt that it shouldn't have been so easy.

That said, I had bigger problems than my sense of aesthetics being offended.

Mouse wasn't dead. _He wasn't dead_. Despite my strongest spell, a spell that vanquished a demon – the treacherous apprentice mage was still _there_.

It was then that I realized the truth. All the small things that I missed, I now noticed.

The robes Mouse wore were not apprentice robes. They were senior enchanters'. True, in a small place like the Circle you would know everyone, and would never need to use a person's clothes to identify them. True, senior enchanters did not always wear their formal garb. True, Mouse spent a lot of time shapeshifted as either a mouse or bear, and didn't give me much of an opportunity to scrutinize him. But those were excuses. I should have noticed that small but important detail. I _should_ have, but didn't.

And then there was Mouse's shapeshifting. A single shapeshifting form, reflecting your personality is one thing. Two? For a mage not especially competent? For a form poorly suited to your personality? This should have set a million alarms off in my mind. It _should_ have, but didn't.

And then Mouse resisted my _Mana Clash_. For an apprentice mage to do that, when a mighty demon of the Fade got annihilated? No. It was impossible. If he were who he claimed to be.

But he wasn't.

Upset at the deception, and upset at myself for careless stupidity, I brusquely asked Superbia to reveal himself.

It was him, of course. Who else could it be? In his pride, he had refused to wear lowly apprentice robes, but opted instead for a senior enchancter's. And whose shapeshifting abilities were known and feared throughout Fade and material world alike? And who but the mightiest of demons could have resisted the _Mana Clash_?

I should have known. _Should_ have, but didn't.

Mouse glowed, and as the disguise faded, the Formless One arose.

"_Not bad. A little late, and you missed some of the hints I dropped. Still, it takes some intelligence to see past my disguise._

"_Remember this, if you remember nothing else:_

"_Simple killing is a warrior's job. The real dangers of the fade are preconceptions; careless trust; pride._

"_You have passed the second test, Mage. We shall now commence with the third._"

-(=DAO=)-

"_This is the Test of Magic._"

We were back on the mountain top, with nothing but blue sky above, and nothing but valleys beneath. Superbia was back on his throne, sitting there like he was king of the world. To be honest, I wanted to punch him in the face.

"_The first test was straightforward; the second, complex; this third test? Nearly impossible for those without the talent._

"_You wanted to learn the secrets of blood magic from me, did you not? In this test, I will teach you those secrets, and you will learn. All you need to do to pass the test is to demonstrate your proficiency at Blood Control._"

"_Come. Impress me, Mage._"

A human-sized chair, uncomfortable looking, rose out of the ground, directly in front of Superbia's own throne.

"_Sit._"

I sat.

"_Listen and learn. There are three essential steps that a mage in the material world would need to take, if he is to successfully control the mind of another mortal._

"_First: He must establish a sufficiently strong connection between his own mind and the Fade._

"_Second: He must establish a sufficiently strong connection between the Fade and his target's mind._

"_Third: He must, through the Fade, assert his will over the target. _

"_The first two steps are basic blood magic, which you are already proficient at. I will not insult you by lecturing you at length on things you already know. What you must do, as part of the Test of Magic, is to demonstrate your ability to dominate the mind._

"_You will engage a target within the Fade, and force your will upon it. If successful, you will be able to make it do your bidding. If you are capable of doing that, so too will you be capable of dominating a mortal's mind._

"_As for your target – I give you leave to choose your opponent. Benevolent spirit or demon, greater or lesser, it does not matter to me. Choose wisely."_

I looked Superbia in the eye, and told him calmly that I wanted him as my opponent.

Why so surprised, Grand Inquisitor?

I would have died? You concern for my well-being is touching. But I am here, so obviously I survived.

Why did I do such an irrational thing? That's a fair question. To be honest, I'm not sure if I know that answer myself.

Partly because I was still upset. Upset at Superbia for his deception, and wanting to get back at him. Upset at myself for having been deceived, and wanting to prove something to myself. Perhaps I was just angry, and my recklessness grew from that.

Maybe because I wanted to be sure that the blood control I learnt was the strongest it could possibly be. That meant testing it against the strongest demon there was. Testing it against some lesser demon might have meant that I never pushed myself and my magic as far as we could go.

And because, above and beyond all else, I came to the Fade to steal fire from the Gods, to forcibly pry it from their hands, and from no one less. I came here to do something momentous, something great, something worthy of the legends of old. I came here to _transcend_.

Superbia, though, wasn't very impressed with talk about transcendence.

"_Mortal. If that is a jest, I forgive you, and warn you never to make it again._"

I assured him that it was no jest. Superbia's voice was dark with barely constrained rage as he replied.

"_Foolish, arrogant mortal. Do you truly think you can best me? I, who have been here since the beginning of time? I, whose magic reaches from one end of the Fade to the other? I, who threw down Dumat himself?_"

I asked him if his pride could tolerate him turning down a challenge from a mere mortal mage. The demon was silent for a few seconds, before he spoke in a cold, flat voice.

"_Very well. Know this, mortal. On my pride, I swear I will destroy you._"

And then the terms of the challenge were set.

We would sit in our two chairs, face to face, utterly still. We would fight a contest of wills. The winner would be one who took control of the other's body, and made them move against their will.

It is hard to believe that a battle between armchair combatants could be suitably epic, but it was.

I was prepared for this confrontation, of course. Months of research and practice, just for this moment. I hadn't expected to be fighting Superbia himself, but my previous plans and contingencies would work as well on him as they would have on lesser demons.

The first order of business was defence – to prevent Superbia from controlling and moving any part of me. This is the easy part, because you are the natural sovereign of your own body, and controlling it comes as naturally as breathing. I _willed_, as hard and deeply and sincerely as I could, that my body not move, that it was as still as a corpse.

The second order of business was offence – to control and move part of Superbia's body. This is the truly difficult part, because by the same lines of logic outlined above, controlling another's body is unfamiliar and unnatural. All I did, and all I could do, was _will_, as fiercely as I could that Superbia move his right arm.

It didn't work, but that didn't worry me. As I've said, the defender is at an advantage, and the would-be invader, a disadvantage. We were in a stalemate of statues, and would remain as such until someone lost their concentration.

Thus the third order of business was distraction - to try to force the other into a mistake.

Superbia was singularly unimaginative in this regard, relying on physical distractions – inasmuch as you can call anything in the Fade 'physical'.

He summoned an inferno, sending it burning and roaring against me.

He shattered the mountain, spearing at me chunks of rock, each larger than the Circle Tower itself.

He called up a blizzard, directing it freezing and howling towards me.

He darkened the sky into a storm, and from that storm he plucked out the lightning itself, hurling it at me like an avenging thunderbolt.

_Boring_.

As awesome as those feats were, they were utterly and completely useless. I was a mortal, and used to living in the material world. I understood very well that the Fade was a dream, a mirage without substance. It was all too easy for me to tell myself that none of it was real. Superbia had the wrath of the elements at his command, but his attacks passed through me like light through glass.

Meanwhile, I preferred my distractions subtle.

To start off, I summoned wax earplugs for myself, following which I conjured up a cricket, small and inconspicuous. And as compensation for making it small and inconspicuous, I gave it the most annoying chirp I could think off – the sound of grating chalk on a blackboard. I let it sing, hoping to distract Superbia. Then, I pulled out the main trick – materializing a flare of light as bright as sun, right behind my head, shining straight into the taller demon's eyes.

To his credit, the demon didn't even blink.

I tried many other tactics. I don't really remember all of them, but one that stood out was me summoning a horde of illusory demons. I set them to taunting my opponent. Some of the taunts were relatively sophisticated, and mocked him for trying and failing to best a mortal. Other taunts were cruder, and were about penis size and the like.

He ignored this and all other attempts to needle him, but I did find it funny.

Do not think of this as useless. The fact that I found the situation funny at all was a triumph. I've told you before – fear will kill you in the Fade. In the situation I was in, any trace of fear would weaken my resolve and lose me both the challenge and my life.

Laughter, meanwhile, is anathema to fear. You cannot truly fear something you find hilarious. It was a way to keep up my own morale and defences.

I burnt through the list of distractions I prepared, until I had to resort to the final, rather desperate one. In the air above me, I spelt out in burning flame, the words "I SURRENDER". I had hoped he would fall for the trick, and, thinking he had won, relax his will, allowing me to pounce.

Again, I got no reaction.

So I moved on the fourth order of business – using the trump I had prepared for just this contingency, a contest of wills with a demon.

I relaxed my defence, letting Superbia's magic seep into my left arm. This was a delicate affair. I had to relax my defence enough to let him feel what I was feeling in my arm – but not enough to give him control over it.

As expected, he sensed the weaknesses and marshalled all his concentration to wrestle control of my own arm away from me. And in response, I set my arm alight.

Pain lanced through the entirety of my left arm. But I was prepared – I didn't flinch.

Neither did Superbia. I could see in his eyes, the shock and anger, as sympathetic pain raced through his own limb. Still, with a force of will, he kept his left arm still and unmoving, remaining as it was on his throne's armrest.

But for one instance – one fateful instance – he was distracted.

So I took control of his right hand, and casually, insolently slapped himself across the face with it.

I don't know which was sweeter – the look of utter incomprehension on Superbia's face as his mind tried to understand that he had been defeated by a human – or the elation of victory, and of the knowledge that I had stolen fire from the Gods, and escaped without having my liver eaten by an eagle.

-(=DAO=)-

Why had I won?

Because Superbia was blinded by his pride.

He kept waiting for me to slip up, thinking that it was inevitable, that I _had_ to. He thought that I couldn't suppress my fear forever – _as if I feared him_. His pride led him to fail to test my defences seriously.

Doubtless he had other nasty tricks up his proverbial sleeve, but he didn't think it necessary to wheel it out against a mere mortal. He kept resorting to the same, ineffective attempted distractions. It was insane – doing the same thing over and over again, and expecting different results.

But above all he thought a mere mortal could not have an advantage over him. He was wrong. Demons, due to their power and the environment of the Fade, rarely if ever feel pain. They have, effectively, little to no pain tolerance. The more powerful the demon, the less likely they are to experience pain, and the weaker their ability to cope when they do suffer pain. In the old stories, demons who possess humans often shriek and scream when you harm them. Well, now you know why.

I told you, earlier in this story, that demons had weaknesses. They wear their weaknesses openly, in their names, declaring them to the whole wide world. Pride and envy, wrath and sloth, greed and gluttony and lust.

I understood that, and because of my understanding, I was victorious.

-(=DAO=)-

I spent some time after that exploring the Fade, but soon enough I again passed through the Veil, to return home to the material world.

I did not get the homecoming I expected.

I woke up in a dark cell, shackled and bound at both wrist and feet, with my chains attached to the wall behind me.

The chains meant nothing to a trained mage, of course. What concerned me was the ward carved into the wall, above the door. I could make out a Glyph of Neutralization, which among other things completely prevents spellcasting within a certain area.

I could get rid of the Glyph, of course. I could literally scratch out the glyph and disrupt its magic. But that would require standing up and walking to the opposite wall, which I couldn't do given the chains. And naturally, I couldn't break the chains without my magic and without first destroying the glyph...

Chicken and egg. This was a prison capable of holding a mage. I was well and truly trapped.

No, this was certainly not the victorious return home I anticipated. I had been looking forward more to drinking myself unconscious with my friends, and less to sitting in dank cells.

I bit back a growl of frustration. Where had I slipped up? I was careful, and had chosen an empty, locked room in the abandoned Tower Basement, from which to cross into the Fade. It was supposed to be a safe place where my body could slumber in peace and without interference.

It was too late for self-recrimination. I had no choice but to try to talk my way out of this mess.

I hollered for the Templar guards that would be stationed outside the cell. One responded, and I demanded to know why I was being held here against my will. The templar – Cullen, I believe his name was – told me he wasn't authorized to discuss anything with me, but he said he would fetch Knight-Commander Greagoir and First Enchanter Irving so I could speak with them.

As Cullen headed off to fine them, I worked my mind furiously, coming up with a dozen excuses and rationalizations I could use. I thought of possible lines of interrogation that Greagoir might take, and how I could further develop my answers. I thought of how I could appeal to Irving, and came up with defences designed to elicit the First Enchanter's sympathy. I had about ten minutes, and during those ten minutes my mind whirled with imaginary arguments and possible endings.

Footsteps echoed from the outside of my cell, and the door opened. Knight-Commander Greagoir, in his imposing Templar armour, stepped in, followed by First Enchanter Irving.

I admit, the disappointment in his eyes hurt me as nothing in Superbia's tests did.

I told him and Greagoir that this was surely a misunderstanding, and asked to be told of the crime I was accused of, so that I could explain myself.

Irving spoke, his voice gentle and mournful.

"Child. How could you have been so foolish? We know that you approached the Formless One, asking to be taught blood magic. We know because he himself told us. And imagine my shock and horror when, after an exhaustive search of the Tower, we found you unconscious with a empty lyrium vial beside you. You have always had more than a healthy interest in the more dangerous arts, but I never thought it would come to this."

Superbia! While I did expect revenge of some sort from him, I didn't think that it would be in such a fashion. After I walked away from his domain unscathed, and with Superbia himself only glaring hatefully at me, I thought I was safe.

I underestimated him.

I asked Irving whether it was fair or wise to take a demon at his words. I told the First Enchanter, honestly, that I had approached the Formless One, but not to learn blood magic. I said that I had wanted to practice for my harrowing. I said that I had angered him with my suggestion, and that this was doubtlessly his way of exacting revenge.

I wasn't proud of lying to Irving, but I did think that my lie was clever. It had enough of the truth that I could deliver it effortlessly, and enough falsity to suggest my innocence. The best lies are half-lies, those with a grain of truth in them.

Unfortunately, the Knight-Commander saw right through my carefully constructed bullshit.

"Enough. This particular demon has helped us conduct the Harrowing since the beginning of the Circle itself. We know enough of its personality to also know that it would not take offence at an apprentice seeking help for his Harrowing. You, on the other hand, are not the first mage to have tried to learn blood magic, though none before you were foolish enough to approach a demon to do it. Your lies are transparent."

I admit I was floored. Not at the venom in Gregoir's voice, but at the revelation that Superbia helped the Circle conduct its Harrowing. I knew that the Circle summoned demons with the apprentice mages as bait, but... this?

I tried to speak, but couldn't find the words. Greagoir then broke the silence.

"For the crime of consorting with demons to learn blood magic, you will be put to death. Do you have any last words to say, _Maleficar_?

I did not.

-(=DAO=)-

So that is how I earned my first epithet: _Maleficar_. I would be known by that name for quite a while. Loghain had a field day dragging the Grey Wardens' name through the mud, by invoking that sobriquet and all its negative associations.

And that is the story of how I stole the secrets of blood magic from the demons of the fade, and almost died for my trouble.

What's that you say? My testimony only convinces you that I am responsible for the catastrophe that befell Denerim? Yes. Yes, I suppose it would.

-(=DAO=)-

Grand Inquisitor, you accuse me of committing an atrocity, unrivalled in depravity since the Magi stormed the Golden City! I say that I stole the secrets of blood magic from the demons of the fade; I scaled the Tower of Ishal to grasp victory against the darkspawn at Ostagar; I slew the Archdemon with my magic to quell the blight itself. At this farce of a trial, what more of a defence do I need, but my deeds themselves?

-(=DAO=)-

There is a city, dead and broken and shattered by blight and blood magic.

In the city, there is a room, vast and dark and silent.

In the room, there is a man so incapable of living with his crimes that he does his best to convince the jury of his guilt.

-(=DAO=)-

A/N: Comments are welcome. Do tell me whether you think the story is interesting, and whether the Warden has enough believable flaws. It's kind of hard writing a character who is basically a Mary-Sue in canon, while making him or her relatable.


	2. Chapter 2 - Tower of Ishal

**.  
Blight-Queller  
**_Chapter 2  
_Tower of Ishal

-(=DAO=)-

There is a city, dead and broken and shattered by blight and blood magic.

In the city, there is a room, vast and dark and silent.

In the room, there is a man whom some say is guilty of taking more lives than the blight itself.

-(=DAO=)-

Grand Inquisitor, you have fired off many questions at me, some penetrating, many more banal. But I am answering them, as promised, with the answers as long and comprehensive as they need to be. Be patient as I continue my story, for you cannot ascertain my guilt or innocence without it.

-(=DAO=)-

I began the story by talking about names and their importance. Now, if you will allow me a brief aside, I will talk about heroism.

As with names, heroism comes in three kinds.

The first kind of heroism is greatness. This is not about being good or moral or kind, but about achieving things that ordinary men can only dream of. The mythical heroes of antiquity, like Thalsian and Dane, were cruel, rapacious bastards, but people still admired them for their strength and wits and extraordinary deeds.

The second kind of heroism is altruism. This is heroism as it is commonly understood by people – putting the interests of others before that of your own. Heroes like Calenhad and Garahel were admired because they risked life and limb to defend the weak and protect the innocent.

The third kind of heroism is ruthlessness. This is heroism as it is commonly misunderstood – for people are too ignorant to understand that a hero has to seek the greater good, even at the cost of the lives of the innocents and even at the expense of the hero's own spiritual well being. Heroes like...

Hmm. No examples come to mind, actually.

Well, that's embarrassing.

-(=DAO=)-

I've always wanted to be a hero.

Intellectually, I've always understood that other people have interests and rights. We all want the same things, don't we? We don't want to die. We want the freedom to live our lives as we see fit. We want happiness, achievement and love. And just as our own interests matters, so too do those of others. I understood this basic truth, and thus always sought to help others as best as I could, in matters big or small.

Emotionally, my own experiences in the prison that is the Circle Tower led me to hate any and all forms of authoritarianism, intimidation and bullying. I learnt to resent the Circle, not just because it restricted _my_ rights, but because it restricted the rights of innocent people who have committed no crime but that of having magic. To borrow the Lady Andraste's most famous quote: _Are we not men and brothers too?_ Is it not wrong and hypocritical for the Chantry to bleat piously that all men are born equal in the eyes of the Maker, while imprisoning some just because they were born different? Do not misunderstand – I am not a mage supremacist. I despise and loathe, to the depths of my soul, the slavers of the Tevinter Imperium. And incidentally, it is also my experiences in the Circle that led me to detest the institution of feudalism. Nobles are no better than the people they lord over and pretend to be superior to.

I have also never lacked for good role models. The First Enchanter is a wise, courageous and compassionate man. As a child, I would run to him – he was still a Senior Enchanter then – and complain about the rules and restrictions placed upon us mages. And he would explain to me, gently and clearly, the reasons for those rules being in place. He would tell me of how the mages once enslaved the entire world, from Par Vollen in the north to Ferelden in the south, from the Sea of Ash in the west to the Amarinthine Ocean in the east, and how people are rightfully scared and fearful of magic. He would teach me the importance of looking at conflicts from the eyes of the victims. From my academic studies, I learnt to think about the interests of others. From my experiences in the Circle, I learnt to resent injustice. But from Irving? From Irving, I learnt kindness.

And that is how I grew to care, deeply, about the good of others – to want to be a hero. I see on your face, Grand Inquisitor, a look of sceptical disbelief. I don't blame you, but I would like to remind you that I chose to fight the darkspawn, risking life and sanity in the process. Would a selfish person do such a thing?

-(=DAO=)-

And that brings us neatly to the topic of the darkspawn.

The darkspawn are the greatest threat to the world and all who live in it. About that there is no question, and of that there is no doubt. Doubt that the sun will rise, doubt that the moon will shine, but do not doubt the fact that the darkspawn will kill all and sundry if left unstopped.

Let us speak of how this world-ending threat arose.

The Magister Lords of the Tevinter Imperium, wreathed in magic and might, were kings ruling over all they saw. But in their infinite hubris, and goaded on by the Old God Dumat, they sought apotheosis and the power of the Maker himself. They sacrificed hundreds of slaves and used two-thirds of the world's lyrium supply, tearing a hole in the Veil to physically enter the Fade. They invaded the Golden City, the Seat of the Maker, Heaven itself. Their sin corrupted the city, turning it black, and the mages themselves were cast out as the first Darkspawn.

Or so the story goes, and so the Chantry tells us.

A myth. A fairytale. A morality play, meant to caution Man against the sin of pride.

Oh, in most important aspects the story is accurate. The Magister Lords were supremely arrogant, and the last people you would trust with power of any sort. They did try to invade heaven. And they did return, corrupted and twisted.

But the truth is that the Golden City was already black and corrupted before they entered. There is something in there, dark and malicious and more powerful than anything I have ever met. I admit that I do not fully understand what the Black City is, but here is my educated guess: just as the Fade is the realm of the mind, composed of our desires and beliefs and emotions, so too is the Black City our innermost psyche, home to our deepest, darkest secrets.

And with this knowledge in hand, so too can you understand how the darkspawn truly came about.

How do I know this?

Because I fought with the Archdemon Urthemiel in his mind, and I saw with mine own eyes the history of the world, when the world was young.

Here is the truth, if you will hear it. In the beginning, there were the Old Gods, proud and powerful and free. They demanded fealty and worship from the immortal elves, but the elves rejected them. The elves saw the Old Gods as false gods, and believed them to be the Forgotten Ones – a race of gods in opposition to the Elven Pantheon. So the elves fought a long, bitter and bloody war against the Seven, and finally managed to cast them down. The elves dared not kill them, however, for they believed that death would merely allow their enemies' souls to wander the Fade, seeking vengeance unto eternity. So with magic, the Dragons' connection to the Fade was severed. They were sealed into an unwaking, unending sleep, and with the help of the dwarves, imprisoned deep beneath the earth.

But time corrodes the strongest magicks, and over the millennia the seals weakened. The Seven regained their connection to the Fade, and they travelled throughout the realm of dreams, seeking revenge. They found the Tevinters, taught them blood magic, and in turn were worshipped with temples built and sacrifices made. By this time, the elves had forgotten their own history. But the Seven did not forget, and they certainly did not forgive. They whispered into the minds of men, and at the Seven's urging, Man went to war with the Elves. Humankind invaded the elven homeland of Elvhenan, sunk their capital of Arlathan with blood magic, and enslaved their whole race. Thus did the Seven have their long awaited revenge.

But they were still imprisoned, still trapped. So again the Old Gods whispered into the minds of men, this time goading them to invade the Black City. For it was known that the City held great power – power enough to break the Old Gods out of their long, forgotten, cloistered sleep. The Magi invaded heaven, were corrupted by the Black City, and then turned against the Old Gods. They sought them out, in the depths of the earth, to corrupt those who had corrupted them.

And the rest, as it were, is history.

The Blights began.

The first corrupted was Dumat, God of Silence, the Great Betrayer himself. The first Archdemon rose from the pits of the earth, and led a massive darkspawn horde in a rampage that would kill more people than there are people alive today. The first blight lasted almost two centuries.

The second corrupted was Zazikel, God of Chaos. The second Archdemon and his darkspawn horde ravaged the land, and entire generations lived and fought and died not knowing anything but blight. The Second Blight lasted ninety years.

The third corrupted was Toth, God of Fire. The third Archdemon and his horde spread devastation far and wide, and nowhere in central Thedas could you go without seeing smoke filling the sky, for all around there were destroyed towns and burnt fields. The Third Blight lasted fifteen years.

The fourth corrupted was Andoral, God of Slaves. The fourth Archdemon and his legion destroyed nations and cities and men, before Garahel put him down. The Fourth Blight lasted twelve years.

The fifth corrupted was Urthemiel, God of Beauty. The fifth Archdemon led his army and tried to desolate Ferelden, but we all know how that story ends, don't we? The Fifth Blight lasted less than a year.

Blights are dangerous, deadly occurrences. This is not merely because the darkspawn feel the need to kill us living creatures by sticking us with sharp objects. If so, a blight would be no different to war.

No. Blights are particularly menacing because the darkspawn spread their taint – their corruption. The taint brings about blight-disease. If you're lucky, you die from it. If not, you develop physical afflictions and mutations. If you're truly unlucky, you get to live in excruciating pain, while you slowly lose your mind and degenerate into a ghoul.

That said, blights kill as many as they do, not through violence and disease, but through famine. A blight infects crops and animals, poisons the water supply, and summons dark clouds that blot out the sun. In a blight, people have never enough to eat, and no means to grow more food. So even if you were fortunate enough to escape darkspawn attacks and the taint, you'll still die, starving and emaciated.

There is nothing in the world half as deadly as a blight.

And correspondingly, there is nothing greater in importance than stopping an Archdemon and his horde.

But how?

-(=DAO=)-

From that desperate question, the Grey Wardens were born.

The Grey Wardens were formed in -305 Ancient, in the Anderfels, when a group of soldiers, veterans of many darkspawn battles, joined together in a pledge to stop the Blight at all costs.

It was then suggested, by Nakiri of Donark, that the Wardens ingest darkspawn blood. The Donarks had the habit of drinking the blood of the enemies, to gain their strength, and Nakiri believed that the same would apply to imbibing darkspawn blood.

After many tests, and many lives lost, it was found that ingesting darkspawn blood could make you immune to the taint and to blight-disease.

And ever since, all Wardens undergo the Joining, wherein they imbibe darkspawn blood. Many died in the process, but others were reborn, strengthened and made invulnerable to the taint.

The Wardens first appeared at the city of Nordbotten, flying down upon their Griffons, slaying the darkspawn and halting the attack upon the city. It turned out that there was a second benefit to drinking the darkspawn blood. The darkspawn were disoriented by the taint within the Wardens, and could not distinguish friend from foe, and as such were far easier to kill.

The victory at Nordbotton gave the world hope when all hope seemed lost, for so very long. The Wardens went from strength to strength, gaining recruits, supplies and funding. They harried the darkspawn in surgical attacks, while leading and organizing the armies of the world in larger battles.

The Wardens were so successful that Dumat himself fled from a Warden offensive. While he was fleeing, some Ander soldiers ambushed him, and killed him.

But the dragon was reborn, and returned to the field soon enough, as powerful as ever. People despaired. _How can we kill an immortal God, _they cried_?_ But the Wardens did not despair. After much dangerous research, the Wardens' mages discovered that Dumat survived because, at the moment of death, his soul moved into the nearest darkspawn's body. From that body, the Archdemon could use his magic to regain his draconic form. But it was theorized that if a Warden struck the killing blow, and the Archdemon's soul attempted to invade a Warden's body, the resulting clash of souls would destroy both the Archdemon and the Warden.

So finally, at the Battle of the Silent Plains, the Wardens led a huge army against the darkspawn horde. In that battle, the Wardens sacrificed themselves to kill Dumat. The dragon fell, never to rise again.

That is why the Wardens are respected, and command so much admiration. Theirs is the ultimate sacrifice. They put aside everything – family, titles, riches – to fight the Blight. And when needed, they lay down their lives as well, for as the Wardens' motto goes: _In War, Victory. In Peace, Vigilance. In Death, Sacrifice_.

I wanted to be a hero, doing good in the world; I wanted to fight the ultimate evil, the Blight itself; I wanted to be a Grey Warden.

Ha. Do you remember the old saying, Grand Inquisitor?

_When the Maker wants to punish us, He answers our prayers, and makes our dreams come true_.

-(=DAO=)-

How did I come to join the Grey Wardens? Come now, Grand Inquisitor, there is no need to be impatient. I was just getting to that part of the story.

So there I was, alone in my cell, imprisoned and awaiting the death sentence for the crime of consorting with demons to learn blood magic.

At Irving's insistence, I was given a day's reprieve. I knew Irving would try to convince Greagoir to spare my life, and I loved the old man for it. Still, it was unlikely that he would prevail upon the Knight-Commander to change my sentence, so I had to escape on my own.

It was easier said than done.

The Glyph of Neutralization in the cell dispelled all active magic effects, disrupted all spellcasting, and blocked all connection to the Fade.

The chains on my hand and feet, meanwhile, limited my movement and meant that I could not reach the Glyph, located on the opposite wall, to destroy it.

Bereft of my spells, and trussed up in iron chains like a noble with a sexual fetish, I was utterly powerless.

Powerless, but not witless.

I put my brain to work, thinking up any and all possible methods of escape.

I tried fiddling with my chains, and picking the lock on it. However, I had absolutely no skill at lockpicking, and found no success at getting myself out of the fetters.

I looked around the cell for pebbles and the like, with which to throw at the Glyph to – hopefully – scratch it, and disrupt its magic. Unfortunately, there no small, launchable objects about at all.

I also considered asking the templars for some water, so that I might try to jump on and strangle whoever came in, and get my key from them. But the more I thought about it, the stupider it seemed, for a mage untrained in physical combat to try and wrestle trained warriors.

Then an idea came to me, as brilliant as it was inane.

First, I considered the time, and estimated that it was about three hours since I first entered the Fade earlier in the evening.

Then, I dredged up all I could remember about the human digestive system and the rate and circumstances of liquid absorption in the stomach.

Lastly, I considered the Glyph, and considered the amount of damage that I would need to inflict upon it.

I felt excitement as I realized that it could very well work.

I stuffed my index finger into my mouth, and stimulated the palatal area around the uvula.

My gag reflect was triggered, and I vomited up, in heaving successions, the contents of my stomach.

It was disgusting, but I smiled, for in the mess of semi-fluid, half digested food that lined my cell floor, there were small traces of liquid lyrium, glowing a faint blue.

Steeling myself, and glad that I had nothing left to vomit up, I bent my face down towards the ground, and sucked up the bits and traces of lyrium.

Then, I stood up awkwardly, taking care not to trip over my chains or over my own feet.

I shuffled forward a few steps towards the door, and then spat.

Liquid lyrium and half-digested food hit the Glyph of Neutralization with a splattering sound.

I held my breath.

There was no visible change, but I knew that the lyrium had ruined the glyph, for I felt my power flow back into me.

I embraced it like an old lover, and used it to tear my chains apart.

It was time for the more glamorous part of my escape.

I looked at my cell once again, and all around there were smooth stone walls, with no window to speak of, and a thick steel door set into the stone itself.

But such a cell could not hold me, for I was a mage.

I gently touched the stone wall separating me from the hallway outside, whispered _shatter_, and the stone shattered, the wall crumbling upon itself and allowing me to step outside.

The templar Cullen, to his credit, reacted immediately by drawing his sword, and moving to attack me.

But swords could not harm me, for I had magic.

I gestured in Cullen's direction, and whispered _freeze_, and he froze, my _Winter's Grasp_ enveloping him with frost.

The other templar, slower on the uptake, was still fumbling with his shield when I turned my attention to him.

But shields could not stop me, for magic could not be stopped.

I motioned at the templar, and whispered _burn_, and he burnt, the _Flame Blast_ immolating him where he stood.

I strode forward towards the large, imposing wooden door that barred my way into the tower proper.

But no door remained closed to me, for magic opens all doors.

I pointed, and whispered _strike_, and the lighting stuck, roaring out from my fingertips and obliterating the door.

I walked out of the area in the tower's basement which the templars were using as a makeshift prison, feeling a quiet euphoria at my escape, and that was when I first met him.

He was just standing there, seemingly unconcerned for his safety, despite me having just blown a thick wooden door apart.

Dark-skinned, bearded, with serious eyes. He wore silver, burnished platemail, scratched and worn with long use and many battles. He held, with consummate ease, two weapons – a dagger and a sword, each in each hand.

I told him that he was not a templar, so I had no quarrel with him, and that there was no need for him to be harmed.

The man spoke, his voice deep and gravelly.

"How interesting. A maleficar with some semblance of a conscience.

"You must be Amell, the one caught entering the Fade to learn blood magic. The First-Enchanter spoke highly about your abilities."

I asked the man to stop wasting my time, and to get out of my way.

"You misunderstand me. Let me introduce myself. My name is Duncan. I am Warden-Commander of the Ferelden Grey Wardens.

"I came to the Circle Tower, not just to seek the help of the mages in fighting the darkspawn horde massing in the Korcari wilds, but also to recruit for my order.

"The First-Enchanter recommended _you_ as a potential recruit. I was just on my way to speak to you.

"So the question is, do you want to be a Grey Warden?"

For the second time that day, I was flummoxed. This came out of nowhere. Then I thought about Duncan's question – for all of one second, that is.

Really, it was no choice at all.

I said yes, of course. No other answer was conceivable.

Duncan spoke again, his eyes never leaving my own.

"And why do you want to be a Grey Warden?"

I told him the truth – that I wanted to help fight the darkspawn. I had known of the increased darkspawn attacks in the south, of course, but was never in a position to do anything to help. The Circle had allowed Uldred, Wynne and many of the senior mages to go to Ostagar to join the King's army, but mere apprentice mages like myself were allowed no such liberty.

After my answer, Duncan asked yet another question, his eyes again boring into mine.

"And why do you want to fight to darkspawn?"

In truth, this impromptu interview was starting to annoy me. I told Duncan that his question was a stupid one. If the darkspawn were not stopped, people would die.

He stared me, long and hard. He was likely was turning my profession of altruism over in his mind, and trying to discern whether I was being honest.

I stared back. Something in my eyes must have convinced him, for he nodded.

"Very well. I accept you as a Warden-Recruit. I will arrange matters with Knight-Commander Greagoir to release you into my custody. Tomorrow, we travel to Ostagar."

And that, Grand Inquisitor, is how I joined the Grey Wardens. It began with a prison break, and ended with freedom, albeit in an unexpected manner.

-(=DAO=)-

I almost regretted that decision over the next week, as Duncan and I headed for Ostagar.

After Duncan had settled all issues with Knight-Commander Greagoir – including the destruction of my phylactery – we travelled for seven long days down the Imperial Highway. From the Lake Calenhad Docks, we headed south and east, the great lake itself always to our right. We reached Lothering, a small town sitting at the crossroads of the Imperial Highway. And from there, we went dead south towards our final destination – Ostagar.

Being the physically inept mage that I was, and having never done anything more strenuous in my life than walk up and down stairs, all the walking that we did do to get to Ostagar was incredibly tiring and painful. At the very end of the first day, my legs were so stiff and hurt so much that I could barely stand. Walking for kilometers upon kilometers, day after day, taxed me physically as nothing else before ever did.

The other thing that made the journey even more unenjoyable was that we had to sleep out in the open. I, who had never slept in anything but warm, comfortable and _clean_ beds, was now compelled to sleep out in the wilderness. I had nothing but a thin bedroll to lie upon, and all about was dirt and insects. I did not enjoy that experience.

What made things even less bearable was Duncan's insistence that we train my combat skills at the end of each day. As you can imagine, I was tired, dirty and far removed from my comfort zone, such that the last thing I wanted was physical training.

Duncan insisted.

I argued, saying that I was a mage, capable of shooting lightning from my arse if needed. Things like combat training were far beneath me.

Duncan insisted.

In the end, I yielded to reason, and Duncan led me through basic military drills and tactics.

Duncan taught me about finding and using cover. After all, even if you were the greatest mage in the world, an arrow to the face would still kill you dead. Duncan showed me how to use things like trees, rock formations, and the lay of the land to shield myself from possible enemy fire. He pointed out the advantages and disadvantages of the various kinds of cover – for example, a tree is defensively solid, but also very obvious as cover. He highlighted the little things – such as aligning your body correctly behind a tree, or not raising your head too high when sheltering behind ridges – things that could make the difference between life and death. And obviously, he made me practice – repeatedly – diving to the ground and taking cover under imaginary enemy fire.

Duncan also ran me through target prioritization in combat. Laid down by King Calenhad centuries ago, it has since stood the test of time. The first target in combat is, and always will be: kill the enemy mage. The reason is pretty self-evident. Left unchecked, mages do enormous damage, with the more powerful ones capable of levelling whole armies. So, yes, kill the mage first, or be killed in turn. The second target to be prioritized is the enemy commander. Disrupt the opponent's chain of command and their effectiveness as a combat unit drops drastically. The third kind of target, and of the least importance, are the normal foot soldiers. Combat prioritization is about systematically eliminating the greatest threats to your side, so you can minimize casualties while maximizing the chances of success. Duncan made sure I understood basic target prioritization, before listing out things that distinguished the priority targets within a darkspawn army. Darkspawn emissaries – the mages – tended to make obvious targets, what with all their staff-waving and spell casting. However, darkspawn alphas – the commanders – made less obvious targets. They tended to be bigger than their compatriots, but this was not always so. Duncan suggested some more subtle clues that could identify the alphas – whichever darkspawn kept gesturing towards the others, or whichever darkspawn the others kept looking towards, would likely be the commander.

Duncan also ran me ragged doing what soldiers call fire-and-movement drills. Manoeuvring and mobility are essential parts of combat. You can get yourself into safer and more defensible positions, or you can flank the enemy and blindside them. But the big problem with trying to get from place to place during battle is that it means breaking cover, and leaving yourself open and vulnerable to enemy fire. So the basic principle in fire-and-movement, is that you move only short distances, from cover to cover, and only when your allies are laying down suppressive fire. This is another reason why mages are so important in battle – lose your mage, and you lose the most effective kind of covering fire available. This process, of suppressive fire paired with movement, allows combatants to move into advantageous positions, and slowly and surely win a battle. It is a very elegant tactic – in theory. In practice, it involved a lot of crawling and rolling through mud and dirt, which I most certainly did not enjoy.

But the thing Duncan stressed above all else is the importance of a combat team having defined roles. While all soldiers practiced fire-and-movement, it was only the Grey Wardens that used the role-system. In this system, you are assigned a role that you will stick to.

One role is that of the _shield_. The person assigned this role is meant to stay on the frontlines, drawing attacks and keeping his team safe. The shield has to be tough and durable, and thus will often be a heavily armoured warrior.

This is so that other roles, like the _spear_, can do their job. The spear is meant to stay behind his team and to keep a distance from the enemy. Only then can the spear perform his role of harassing and harming the enemy at range.

There is also the _support_. The person designated as the support is the sacrificial lamb. He or she gets to do all the risky but necessary combat undertakings – like scouting out ahead, or flanking the enemy when cover fire if not available.

Then there is the _carry_. The role derives its name from the fact that the carry often has to – figuratively – carry his team to victory. The carry tends either to be the commander – who makes the decisions and directs his team – or a mage – who is naturally capable of inhuman feats.

The Wardens started using the role-system because it is efficient. Even when an unanticipated battle starts, everyone knows what to do – you can never be caught with your proverbial pants down. The system also allows for better decision making. The role-system clarifies the importance of certain individuals – like the team's mage – by designating them as _carry_, and directs all other members of the team to protect that one, essential individual. Of course, the role-system also reminds the carry that his safety and continued existence on the field of battle is more important than things like glory or even the life of an ally. A _support_ may sacrifice himself to save the _carry_; but not the other way around.

All this, and much of my knowledge of the darkspawn, I learnt from Duncan, as we travelled towards Ostagar.

Every night I went to sleep tired, muddy and irritated, but I was learning how to be a Grey Warden – and that fact alone made up for everything.

-(=DAO=)-

We reached Ostagar on the morning of the eighth day, and to our surprise, were greeted at the gates of Ostagar by King Cailan.

Cailan himself was a great disappointment.

He spoke of battle as it were glorious – as if battle did not involve pain and injury and death. He talked dismissively about Arl Eamon's reinforcements from Redcliff, saying that Eamon was only out to steal his glory. He said he hoped for a war like in the tales, wherein the king would ride out with the fabled Grey Wardens to confront a tainted God.

What a fool. Being a Grey Warden and fighting the blight were about saving lives, not about honour and glory. It disturbed me greatly, when I realized that the King of Ferelden did not understand this basic fact.

But while the King was disappointing, Ostagar was not. It was everything I had dreamed of.

Duncan gave me the freedom to explore the place, as he attended to Grey Warden business.

For the first time in my life, I had the freedom to wander about as I pleased, to do as I pleased, to meet people as I pleased.

It was really interesting, just walking about, and talking to everyone I met, whether soldier or priest or merchant. I must say, it was really fun talking to the priests. They get so heated, when you try to argue theology with them, and expose their ignorance. The younger Mothers were particularly nice to tease – they fluster really easily.

But I also had more serious conversations.

It was there at Ostagar where I first met him, you know.

Loghain.

I was exploring Ostagar, and came across his tent. After speaking to the Teyrn's guard, I managed to persuade the man to let me meet the Teyrn himself.

Loghain came out of his tent, wearing his famous Armour of the River Dane.

He looked tired. He was pale, and there were dark circles under his eyes. When he spoke, he sounded tired too, though even then you could hear the steel in his voice.

He wasn't larger than life, and honestly, he seemed no different from any normal man.

But perhaps that was why Ferelden admired him so much. Loghain helped secure Ferelden's independence, and he did so with courage and cunning and hard work, nothing more. Loghain showed that ordinary people were capable of extraordinary things.

I admired him, you know. Respected him. He was a hero to me.

Before Ostagar.

But that tale will come later.

When I met Loghain, the man's first words to me were characteristically brusque.

"Yes, what is it? Ah, you're Duncan's new Grey Warden, I assume."

I confirmed that I was.

"Cailan's fascination with the Wardens goes beyond the ordinary. Are you aware his father brought your order back to Ferelden?"

I did, actually. I knew my history, especially on topics as important to me as the Grey Wardens. Loghain elaborated, nonetheless.

"Maric respected the Grey Wardens. They have an honoured place in the hearts of our people.

"But Maric would have understood that it takes more than legends to win a battle. But that's not an argument I'll repeat here."

I was actually quite relieved to here him say that. After Cailan and his worrying lack of contact with reality, it was good to know that the Teyrn was a sensible man. I would have asked Loghain more about the battle, but he changed topics quite abruptly.

"I hear you're from the Circle of Magi. The First Enchanter spoke highly of you – a great achievement, for one so young.

"I don't suppose you'll be riding into the thick of battle with the rest of your fellows, will you?"

It was interesting to learn that the First Enchanter corresponded with Loghain. I also noted that Loghain didn't mention my status as a maleficar – then again, Irving would not mention such things casually, to the detriment of the Circle's reputation and to myself.

Regardless, I indicated to Loghain that I had no idea whether I would be going into battle.

"If Cailan has his way, you will.

"Now I must return to my task. Pray that our king proves amenable to wisdom, if you're the praying sort."

I wished him luck.

After wandering about for a bit more, I found the Circle's encampment.

Its entrance was guarded by two templars, and beyond them, I could see three mages in a circle, practicing a combination _Blizzard_ spell.

I tried to enter, but the templars stopped me. One said,

"The mages must not be interrupted. Their spirits are in the Fade."

I frowned at the templar who spoke, and then looked at the mages again.

They were definitely not in the Fade – they were all awake, standing upright, and their hands were going through the motions of _Blizzard_. They had probably lied to the templars, to prevent anyone from intruding and distracting them during spell practice. And perhaps they found exploiting the ignorance of the templars amusing.

I certainly would have.

As it was, I did not feel like interrupting their practice – since it seemed so important to them – nor did I want to explain to the templars the joke pulled on their ignorant selves. So, I went around the side of the encampment, looking for another way in.

While looking, I met Senior Enchanter Wynne. She was, predictably, not happy to see me.

"Amell. So it is you. The Grey Wardens' new recruit, a maleficar from the Circle.

"Irving was so proud of your talent. And yet you throw it all away, doing something so foolish and irreponsible as bargaining with demons! The Fade is a dangerous place."

She gave me that disapproving, grandmotherly look that she was so good at.

I told her that I had bested the strongest demon in the Fade, and that the realm of dreams held no terror for me.

"And yet the Templars caught you, red-handed. You would have been executed, you know."

I told her that, seeing as I had broken out of the cell under my own power, I could easily have destroyed my phylactery and escaped the Tower.

"You do know that the phylacteries are secured in a room whose door is immune to magic, don't you? Even for one so talented as yourself, it would not have been possible to breach that room."

I told her that everything was possible, given that I had blood magic. I pointed out that I could have controlled Knight-Commander Greagoir, and obtained his key.

And that was the end of our conversation. Wynne fell silent, her face tight with anger and disgust. And since I had no desire to continue arguing with her, I took my leave.

As requested of me by Duncan, I went in search of the other Grey Warden recruits who would be participating in the Joining, to bring them back to the Wardens' tent before noon. At that point, I had no idea of what the ritual actually was, or of its significance.

The first of the other potential Wardens that I found was Daveth, a criminal and a rogue whom Duncan had rescued from a hanging in Denerim. He told me that he had overheard some other Wardens talking about the Joining, and it seemed that we would have to go into the Korcari wilds. I told him that Duncan wanted him back at the Warden tent, and he obliged.

The other potential Warden was Ser Jory, a Redcliff knight once under the service of Arl Eamon. When I identified myself as a mage, he started stuttering in fear and trepidation – apparently he had a phobia of magic, and had always found it unnerving. He seemed only too happy for an excuse to run away from me, when I told him about Duncan's request that he report back to the Warden tent.

And finally, I went looking for Alistair.

-(=DAO=)-

I've had many companions on my quest to quell the blight.

The Warden Templar. The Witch of the Wilds. The Lost Bard. The Fallen Champion.

But let us talk about the Warden Templar, for it was him I met first.

Alistair is kind, loyal and brave. He is everything you want, as a friend and companion-in-arms. He was – is – like a brother to me.

He and I are similar, in our commitment to the Grey Wardens. We made a sacred vow to stop the darkspawn threat, and we both take this vow very seriously. Alistair has a good heart, and always looks to protect those who cannot protect themselves, and for that I admire him greatly.

But we are also very different, in that he does not share my ruthlessness. He does not agree with me, that committing injustice is justified in the pursuit of the greater good. This divide between us proved deep – deeper than I anticipated.

I first met Alistair at Ostagar, when he was getting told off by Senior Enchanter Samuel. Apparently, Alistair was delivering a message from the revered mother, and of course neither the mages nor the Chantry enjoyed working with each other. Alistair, as the messenger, had the honour being harangued by both sides.

As I approached, and as Senior Enchanter Samuel stalked off, Alistair turned to me and quipped,

"You know, one good thing about the Blight is how it brings people together."

I shrugged, and pointed out that the mages and the Chantry had never gotten along, and for good reason.

"I suppose you're a mage yourself?"

I told him that I was, and that I was the new recruit to the Wardens.

"Glad to meet you.

"As the junior member of the order, I'll be accompanying you when you prepare for the Joining."

I had grown curious about the secretive ritual, so I asked Alistair if he could tell me more about it.

"Honestly, nothing! Try not to, er, worry about it. It will... just distract you."

His evasive answer, and the awkward way he delivered it, only made me more suspicious about the whole ritual.

"So, I'm curious: Have you ever actually encountered darkspawn before?"

At that point, I had not.

"When I fought my first one, I wasn't prepared for how monstrous it was. I can't say I'm looking forward to encountering another.

"Anyhow, whenever you're ready let's head back to Duncan. I imagine he's eager to get things started."

We spoke more on our way back to the Warden tent, and I learnt, among other things, that Alistair had trained as a templar. I admit that learning of that piece of Alistair's history didn't endear him to me, and it made me act colder towards him than I would otherwise have. We weren't bosum buddies right away.

-(=DAO=)-

We gathered at the Warden tent, and Duncan gave us our instructions.

"You four will be heading into the Korcari wilds to perform two tasks. The first is to obtain three vials of darkspawn blood, one for each recruit."

I asked the question that we recruits were thinking: what did we need darkspawn blood for?

"For the Joining itself. I'll explain more once you've returned."

I pointed out that the Wardens could surely have acquired some blood before now, and that there seemed to be more to the task than met the eye.

"Of course. You must work together to collect the components, however. It's as much a part of the Joining as what comes after."

I thought that was reasonable enough: a test of our teamwork as potential wardens. I asked about the second task.

"There was once a Grey Warden archive in the Wilds, abandoned long ago when we could no longer afford to maintain such remote outposts.

"It has recently come to our attention that some scrolls have been left behind, magically sealed to protect them. Alistair, I want you to retrieve these scrolls if you can."

My interest piqued, I asked what the scrolls were.

"Old treaties, if you're curious. Promises of support made to the Grey Wardens long ago.

"They were once considered only formalities. With so many having forgotten their commitments to us, I suspect it may be a good idea to have something to remind them with."

It enquired about how we would find their archive, out there in the wide expanse of the wilderness.

"It will be an overgrown ruin by now, but the sealed chest should remain intact. Alistair will guide you to the area you need to search."

And so we four set out, to find the archive and three vials of darkspawn blood.

-(=DAO=)-

We headed out of Ostgar, and into the Koracri wilds.

We adopted the role-system. Alistair was pleasantly surprised when I suggested it, and after some explanation, Daveth and Ser Jory agreed to it was well.

Alistair, as the most heavily armoured amongst us, and as the one with the most experience with darkspawn – the rest of us had none –would take point as the shield.

Daveth, our best archer, would hang back and act as the spear.

Ser Jory, greatsword in hand, would support Alistair.

And I would carry.

We headed straight for the archive to retrieve the treaties, because we were likely to encounter darkspawn on the way there anyway, affording us the chance to obtain their blood.

Not a hundred meters from the southern gates of Ostagar, we were attacked by blight wolves.

We were in a shallow but narrow valley between two hills. The wolves poured in from the southern end of the valley, howling for blood.

Alistair, who was furthest in front, dropped into a combat stance, his sword and shield raised. Ser Jory hefted his greatsword, while Daveth strung his bow.

But it wasn't necessary, given my magic and given the fact that the wolves were charging down the valley, in a straight line.

I stepped out in front of my team, and directed a _Cone of Cold_ down the gorge, halting the blight wolves in their tracks. The _Cone of Cold_ is one of the most effective combat spells a mage can wield. You blast out cold air, and the cold air freezes whatever creature is unfortunate enough to be caught within the conical radius of the spell. And by cold here, I mean the absolute lower limit of the thermodynamic temperature scale.

The wolves were frozen, but I made sure they were dead by launching a _Fireball_ into their midst. The _Fireball_ is another highly effective combat spell. The name is pretty self-explanatory: you throw out a very hot, highly dense ball of burning gas, which then explodes and incinerates everything in a circle around it. The _Fireball_ is the sun writ small – capable of burning hot enough to melt steel.

And so the blight wolves died, falling easily to my magic and to the strategic position afforded to us by the valley. Ser Jory looked incredibly disconcerted at the sight of magic, but didn't say anything. Knowing him, he was probably afraid that I would turn him into a frog or something if he complained.

But no one complained, because I won us the fight easily, without anyone of us getting hurt.

We continued into the wilds, passing a small lake, before coming across an open clearing.

It was devastation.

Everywhere, there were dead soldiers lying on the ground. Broken carts were lying on their sides, with one cart seemingly torn in half. There was also an ox, presumably a draft animal – it was bloody, its stomach torn open and its guts spilled all over the forest floor.

We heard a shout for help, and miraculously, there was a soldier still alive. He was crawling on the ground, obviously wounded, but through pained gasps, told us that his scouting company was ambushed by darkspawn coming up out of the ground.

Daveth asked if I could use my magic to heal him, but I could not. Healing had never interested me as a subject in the Circle – another point of contention between myself and Wynne. Right then, seeing the wounded soldier, I really wished I had spent more time mastering the healing magics, and less time calling Wynne a glorified poultice.

Alistair bandaged the man up as best as he could, and we offered to bring him back to Ostagar, but the soldier declined, saying that he could find his way back on his own.

The news of darkspawn tunnelling underground, and being capable of ambushing anyone, anywhere, was disturbing. Ser Jory, in particular, did not take to the news well. I told Ser Jory to calm down, reminding him that I had magic at my command, while Alistair too tried to reassure the man, saying that Grey Wardens were capable of sensing the darkspawn, thus nullifying any possible ambushes. Despite my questions, Alistair refused to tell me how he could do such a thing, again telling me to wait till the Joining.

We pushed south, and entered an area full of old ruins. As we reached the southern part of the ruins, Alistair warned us that he could sense darkspawn ahead. And indeed, after heading south for a while more, we could make out, on a hill beyond the southern entrance of the ruins, a group of darkspawn.

We kept low, crawling through the grass towards the darkspawn's position, before taking cover behind some ruined walls. I gauged the distance of the hill from us, and its elevation, and then from behind cover, I summoned and launched a series of _Fireballs_ at the darkspawn. My attacks were true, and the hill exploded into a raging inferno.

I thought the battle was over before it had even begun, but I had underestimated the tenacity and toughness of the darkspawn.

Out of the flames came a hurlock, literally on fire, but it still rushed at us in a final, desperate, quixotic attack. It was the first time I had seen a darkspawn up close. It was monstrous, fearsome and ugly as incest.

Without breaking cover, I used a _Cone of Cold_ to immobilize it, leaving Alistair to step forward and finish the creature. He swung his sword in a wide arc, putting his weight behind the stroke, and with a perfect strike took the head right off the creature's body.

I extinguished the fires that were still burning, and we made for the hill. We approached it carefully, despite Alistair's reassurance that he could no longer feel the darkspawn's presence and that they were no longer alive.

Thankfully, no nasty ambush was sprung upon us, as we climbed the hill to get to the darkspawn bodies.

One unfortunate side effect of my heavy use of fire spells, though, was that many of the bodies were burnt to ashes, and there weren't a lot of usable darkspawn bodies from which we could get blood.

Alistair bent down next to a body that was, still, largely recognizable as a body. He took a knife out and got to work, slitting the darkspawn's throat and storing the blood that flowed out into three separate vials.

So that was the first part of our mission complete.

We headed further south, and then south-east.

We passed the gruesome sight of some soldiers being hung by their necks from some ruined arches.

Past that, there was a wooden bridge, which we had to cross to get to other side of the river.

As Alistair had warned us, there were darkspawn at and beyond the bridge.

I wondered if the darkspawn were not more cunning and intelligent than we gave them credit for. After all, they had conducted a successful ambush on that group of soldiers we saw lying dead in the clearing. The darkspawn also seemed to congregate at strategically very defensible choke points – first, at the southern end of those ruins, and now, at this bridge. It would be easy for them to repel and stop any attack upon the bridge.

From the tree I was sheltering behind, I squinted at the lone darkspawn standing on the bridge. Tall, and holding what seemed to be a staff, it looked very much like an emissary. Wanting to take no chances, I fired off a _Mana Clash_, and was gratified to see the emissary on the bridge topple, falling to the side and into the river.

In quick succession, I conjured and hurled _Fireballs_ at the darkspawn beyond the bridge. I was careful not to destroy the bridge itself, for otherwise we would have to wade across – and I did not want to get myself waist deep in muddy water.

I thought that was the end of it, but it wasn't. This was not the first time that day that I underestimated the darkspawn, and it wouldn't be the last. Three more darkspawn leapt out from the tall grass in front of the tree I was taking cover behind, and rushed at me. How I had failed to notice them, I do not know, but I was taken off guard.

I managed to use a _Cone of Cold_, but it was hastily cast, and badly aimed. It only caught one of the darkspawn – the one charging at me head on – while the other two to the sides had closed in on me.

I stumbled back, and then Alistair was there. Shield up, he stepped between me and the darkspawn to my left. Then Alistair attacked, his sword flashing once, twice, thrice. The darkspawn was caught with a heavy diagonal slash across its chest, and then with a follow-up backhanded cut onto its shoulder, and finally Alistair split its head upon with a hammer-blow to its skull.

The one to my right was almost right on top of me, ready to inflict upon me a most fatal case of dagger-to-the-throat. I was trying to a cast a spell, but I was too slow. Thankfully for me, Daveth was on point. With a smart, well-placed and well-timed shot, an arrow sprouted from the darkspawn's forehead, and it collapsed to the ground.

My heart was pounding in my chest at the close call. It makes you feel more alive, somehow – this sort of brush with death. I'm not saying it made me feel excited, as I understand is the case with those who lust after battle – what I mean to say is that you're suddenly aware that you're a sack of meat, so very vulnerable, so easily killable, so unexceptionally mortal.

But we had our victory, regardless. Again, Alistair judged that the darkspawn were all dead, so we used the rickety old bridge to cross the river. It turned out that this bridge used to be held by human soldiers – but the darkspawn had killed them all, and their bodies were still scattered about the place. This time, there were no survivors to be found.

We pressed east, north, then east again. Soon enough, Alistair directed us to head north once more; he indicated that we were near the location of the archive.

However, we came across another yet another group of darkspawn, this one far larger than the previous two we fought – they were about the size of a whole company of men. They barred the way to the archive, and there didn't seem to be any way through without a fight.

We were atop a hill, and I was taking cover behind a mossy tree log. For the umpteenth time that day, I materialized and launched dozens of Fireballs into the enemy.

The fire engulfed the darkspawn, but with a group that big, some escaping stragglers were inevitable.

Numbering perhaps a dozen or so, the darkspawn stragglers charged our way, doubtlessly having noticed the direction from which the _Fireballs_ came. A _Cone of Cold_ incapacitated perhaps half the group, while Alistair broke cover, rushing out to meet them.

I had never known, before this, that the shield could be used with such skill and finesse. Watching Alistair fight, however, washed away my ignorance. He held the shield up, always keeping it between him and the enemy. He shifted from defence to attack fluidly, lashing out in controlled strikes that always sent his target reeling back. Meanwhile, no attack got through his defences, his shield weaving up and down, left and right, always catching or turning away the blows sent his way, even at the last moment. The darkspawn tried to flank him, but Alistair was one step ahead, his awareness of the battlefield and clever movement always making sure that the darkspawn could never attack from his sides. His mastery of the shield was such that, when a darkspawn stepped in close and tried to deal a heavy blow, Alistair somehow managed to catch the creature's sword on the edge of his shield, and with a twist, disarmed him.

All this bought the rest of us time and space to engage the darkspawn effectively. Daveth, from behind us, fired off arrow after arrow. Not one missed, and for every one that hit, it was yet another darkspawn dead.

Ser Jory, too, was impressive. His greatsword cleaved through the darkspawn, none of his powerful blows leaving him overextended and vulnerable, with one attack always transitioning smoothly into the another.

The battle was soon won, the darkspawn stragglers slaughtered.

After Alistair announced that he believed all the darkspawn to be dead, I smothered the fire, and we made for the ruins of the old Warden outpost.

We searched the ruins, high and low.

It took some time, but before long I came across a broken, empty chest. Inside, I found a Glyph of Warding – its effect long faded away, the lyrium powering it used up.

Given how well protected the chest used to be, it may as well have once contained the precious Grey Warden treaties that we were looking for; but now there was nothing in the chest but dust and spiderwebs.

I called the others over, to show them my discovery.

That was when I saw her.

Beautiful, more so than anyone else I had ever met, before or since. She was slender and supple, moving with an easy grace. Her hair was dark, in contrast to her skin, which was pale and flawless.

I didn't notice all that at first, because I was too busy staring at her chest. Forgive me; I was a young man, used to being around female mages and Chantry sisters who wore full bodied robes. Her clothing, on the other hand, was barely clothing, revealing more than it hid.

But you would be a fool to think of her as but a pretty face. You needed only to look into her eyes, yellow and sharp and piercing like a hawk's, to remind yourself of that. The staff she was carrying on her back also marked her as a mage, and clearly an apostate at that, and thus dangerous beyond measure.

"Well, well, what have we here?"

She walked down the slope connecting the ruins' first and second floors, as regal as a queen. Her voice was high and sultry, but in a disquietingly menacing way. Not once did her unnerving eyes leave mine.

"Are you a vulture, I wonder? A scavenger, poking amidst a corpse whose bones were long since cleaned? Or merely an intruder, come into these darkspawn filled wilds of mine in search of easy prey?

"What say you, hmm? Scavenger or intruder?"

She came to stand in front of me, her eyes continuing to bore into mine. Absurdly, I felt compelled to continue matching her stare, as if I would be less a man if I looked away. In response to her question, I answered that we were neither scavengers nor intruders, but Grey Wardens, and that the Wardens once owned this tower.

"Tis a tower no longer. The Wilds have obviously claimed this desiccated corpse.

"I have watched your progress for some time. 'Where do they go,' I wondered, 'why are they here?'

"And now, you disturb ashes none have touched for so long. Why is that?"

Alistair interjected at this point,

"Don't answer her. She looks Chasind, and that means others may be nearby."

She answered mockingly.

"Oooh! You fear barbarians will swoop down upon you."

She raised her hands, dramatically, as if in emphasis. Alistair, looking disconcerted, muttered,

"Yes... swooping is bad."

Alistair was not the only one unsettled by her appearance. Daveth too, expressed his discomfort,

"She's a Witch of the Wilds, she is. She'll turn us into toads!"

Again, her answer was sharp and mocking.

"Witch of the Wilds? Such idle fancies, those legends. Have you no minds of your own?

"You there, handsome lad, tell me your name and I shall tell you mine. Let us be civilized."

Her eyes focused back onto mine.

I introduced myself, and in return, I learnt her name.

"And you may call me Morrigan, if you wish.

"Shall I guess your purpose? You sought something in that chest, something that is here no longer?"

Alistair didn't take kindly to Morrigan's words.

"'Here no longer?' You stole them, didn't you? You're... some kind of... sneaky... witch-thief!"

"How very eloquent. How does one steal from dead men?"

"Quite easily, it seems. Those documents are Grey Warden property, and I suggest you return them."

"I will not, for twas not I who removed them. Invoke a name that means nothing here any longer if you wish; I am not threatened."

It was actually pretty amusing, watching Morrigan and Alistair trade barbs, but we needed those documents, so I asked Morrigan if she did know who removed them.

"Twas my mother, in fact."

I asked, politely, for Morrigan to bring us to her mother.

"There is a sensible request. I like you."

"I'd be careful. First it's" – and here, Alistair adopted a falsetto – "'I like you...' but then Zap! Frog time."

I did not worry as the others did, for I was a mage. I knew that people could not be turned into frogs. More than that, I did not believe some Chasind witch doctors could pose a threat to a trained mage of the Circle Tower, let alone one as gifted as myself.

Of course, I didn't know who Morrigan's mother was, then.

Morrigan, quick and sure, led us through the forest, and it did not take long for us to reach a small hut.

Outside the hut, Morrigan introduced us to her mother.

"Greetings, Mother. I bring before you four Grey Wardens who –"

"I see them, girl. Mmm. Much as I expected."

While Morrigan's voice was high, her mother's voice was sharp. It was the voice of a woman of many years, who had seen much and known much.

Alistair, on the other hand, thought little of the old woman before us.

"Are we supposed to believe you were expecting us?"

You could hear the disdain dripping of the old woman's tongue, as she said,

"You are required to do nothing, least of all believe. Shut one's eyes tight or open one's arms wide... either way, one's a fool!"

Daveth, meanwhile, again expressed his fear about witches and the like.

"She's a witch, I tell you! We shouldn't be talking to her!"

Jory silenced the rogue.

"Quiet, Daveth! If she's really a witch, do you want to make her mad?"

The old woman snorted, in what could have been approval.

"There is a smart lad. Sadly irrelevant to the larger scheme of things, but it is not I who decides. Believe what you will."

She turned to me.

"And what of you, bloody one? Do you possess a different viewpoint? Or do you believe as the others do?"

Ignoring her non-sequitur of a nickname for me, I said that I believed that she had something we needed. As Morrigan interjected bluntly,

"They did not come to listen to your wild tales, Mother."

"True, they came for their treaties, yes? And before you begin barking, your precious seal wore off long ago. I have protected these."

Alistair was comically taken aback at this.

"You... oh. You protected them?"

"And why not? Take them to your Grey Wardens and tell them this Blight's threat is greater than they realize!"

As I received the treaties – I checked them over to be sure, and ascertained that they were what they were supposed to be – I asked the old woman for clarification. What did she mean, that the Blight's threat was greater than the Wardens realized? How could anyone underestimate the Blight?

"Either the threat is more or they realize less. Or perhaps the threat is nothing! Or perhaps they realize nothing!"

The old woman laughed.

"Oh, do not mind me. You have what you came for!"

Morrigan made as if to shoo us off.

"Time for you to go, then."

Strangely enough, Morrigan's mother chided her.

"Do not be ridiculous, girl. These are your guests."

"Oh, very well. I will show you out of the woods. Follow me."

Looking back, I think I do believe the stories told about her. I think I do believe that she could see the future. She hinted at Ser Jory's death. She hinted at the massacre at Ostagar. She hinted at, I think, the cataclysm of Denerim. She saw many things.

Would that I had the same power.

-(=DAO=)-

Morrigan led us back to Ostagar, and there the Joining commenced.

We recruits assembled at the old temple, and Duncan spoke to us, his voice formal.

"At last we come to the Joining.

"The Grey Wardens were founded during the First Blight, when humanity stood on the verge of annihilation. So it was that the first Grey Wardens drank of darkspawn blood, and mastered their taint."

Ser Jory expressed the trepidation that we all felt.

"We're going to drink the blood of those... those creatures?"

Duncan replied,

"As the first Grey Wardens did before us, as we did before you. This is the source of our power, and our victory."

Alistair elaborated.

"Those who survive the Joining become immune to the taint. We can sense it, in the darkspawn, and use it to slay the Archdemon."

I asked if this were truly necessary.

Duncan looked me in the eyes, and said,

"Yes. Believe me, it is."

Duncan turned to Alistair.

"We speak only a few words prior to the Joining, but these words have been said since the first. Alistair, if you would?"

Alistair looked down, his face solemn, and recited,

"_Join us, brothers and sisters. Join us in the shadows where we stand vigilant. Join us as we carry the duty that can not be forsworn. And should you perish, know that your sacrifice will not be forgotten. And that one day we shall join you._"

Duncan handed me a large goblet, full of a dark liquid, and said softly,

"You are called upon to submit yourself to the taint, for the greater good."

I thought of what being a Grey Warden meant; I thought of the darkspawn out there in the Korcari wilds; I thought of all the lives that could be saved.

It was no choice at all.

I drank.

Whispers filled my mind, overwhelming and insistent.

I saw a great dragon, dark and howling and fearsome.

Then I saw no more, as I slipped into unconsciousness.

-(=DAO=)-

I survived, of course.

Daveth and Ser Jory did not, however.

That was the sacrifice we Grey Wardens made.

But there was no time to mourn or reflect on their deaths, for there was a battle coming.

The darkspawn horde had gathered a short distance from Ostagar, and an attack was imminent.

The king was holding a war council, and surprisingly enough I was invited to it.

The council was not going well. Cailan and Loghain were already arguing heatedly before Duncan and I arrived. They argued about everything – whether Cailan should be on the front lines, whether we needed the Orlesian forces, whether the Grey Wardens could be relied upon. All it all, it was not an encouraging sign for the battle ahead.

Cailan ran us through the strategy Loghain had devised. The strategy was simple, as the best strategies tended to be. Cailan, the Grey Wardens, and a small force of men would take a stand in the valley over which Ostagar was built. The valley was narrow, and highly defensible, such that any enemy assault upon it would suffer massive casualties, and be repelled easily enough. Cailan's forces would thus attempt to draw the darkspawn forces into the valley, where their greater numbers would not matter. Meanwhile, Loghain and the main bulk of our forces would be waiting to the east of the valley. Once the darkspawn were committed to engaging Cailan's forces, their rear would be open and vulnerable. Loghain would flank them, and the darkspawn would be destroyed, caught between the hammer and the anvil. It was a sound strategy, and it all turned upon the Tower of Ishal – the beacon would have to be lit, as a signal to Loghain's forces to charge.

It was an essential task, and Cailan wanted us Grey Wardens to do the deed. Alistair and I were to wait atop Ishal, lighting the beacon fifteen minutes after the start of battle, or when Duncan gave the signal, whichever came first. With the lighting of the beacon, victory should be ours.

One could complain, as Alistair did later on, that we Grey Wardens were wasted on this task. It was a fair complaint, for Loghain's men in the tower could easily light the beacon themselves. I didn't mind being set this task, though, for with my magic I could devastate the darkspawn from atop the tower, as easily as I could on the ground below – easier, in fact, because of the high vantage point.

I was overconfident. We all were. We underestimated the darkspawn, and many people would die that night because of it.

-(=DAO=)-

The darkspawn horde descended upon Ostagar.

When it started, Alistair and I were still on the bridge that spanned the two sides of Ostagar. I was enchanting, with frost and flame, the missiles of the ballistae the soldiers upon the bridge were using. Then the attack came, the darkspawn pouring out of the woods like the ocean in storm.

Moved into action, we two raced across the bridge, to get to the eastern side of the valley. Even then, at the very beginning of the battle, I realized that something was terribly wrong. Cailan's forces had over-extended themselves, and had pushed too far out of the valley. They were already being overrun, and though we were on the bridge high above them, we could visibly see the darkspawn forces cutting a swath through the defenders.

That was our first mistake, in underestimating the strength and brutality and viciousness of the darkspawn.

As the battle raged below us, and as a thunderstorm raged above, Alistair and I hurried for the Tower of Ishal. Some distance from the tower, we met a soldier and a tower guard, and they broke to us the disastrous news. The darkspawn had tunnelled up from under the tower, slain most of the guards, and taken the tower itself.

That was our second mistake, in underestimating the cunning and wiles of the darkspawn.

There was nothing to be done, but fight our way through the enemy to get to the top of Ishal, and light the beacon ourselves.

Together with the soldier and guard, we headed into the tower's courtyard, where there were darkspawn overwhelming the last of the towers' guards.

The monsters, finished with slaughtering the guards, turned towards us. Their faces were twisted caricatures of people's, and you could see that these were creatures whose purpose and pastime was killing.

They rushed at us, but a single _Cone of Cold_ froze them. When the darkspawn were fighting the towers guards, they had congregated into a small area between a wall and some scaffolding, setting themselves up to be easily caught by a single spell. The follow-up _Fireball_ that I casted was effective at immolating the darkspawn, for the same reason.

We continued through the courtyard and ever more darkspawn, but with the elements at my command, we cut through them as easily as a honed sword through air.

We reached the large double-doors of the tower. I prepared another _Fireball_, and immediately as Alistair and the soldier shoved the door open, I hurled it in. The _Fireball_ exploded, and our team rushed into the tower.

The darkspawn had set up in the main chamber, and had set up a good defensive position, with a flaming barricade as protection, and archers situated behind. My _Fireball_ had destroyed a good part of the room, and killed quite a number of darkspawn, but there were still some remaining. I readied my magic again, while Alistair and the soldier rushed in, with the tower guard taking up position behind me, already notching his bow and taking aim at a target.

It was then I realized that one of the darkspawn, thrown onto the floor by the explosion of my _Fireball_, was not in fact dead. He had lost his left arm, but was using his right to prop himself up. Then, most disturbingly, a severed arm from one of the piles of human corpses flew up and at the one-armed darkspawn, attaching itself to the darkspawn's left shoulder. Black sparks danced across the limb, and the creature clenched his left fist.

I had not noticed earlier on, though I should have. This was a genlock emissary, and my first _Fireball_ had not killed, only badly injured him. And apparently, healing an injury as severe as a lost limb was not beyond the death magic of the darkspawn emissaries.

I was in the midst of forming another _Fireball_, but having identified an emissary, I let the magic dissipate, so as to prepare a _Mana Clash_ instead.

The emissary himself was not idle, for he was preparing magic of his own. A globe of liquid, as clear and colourless as water, was forming between his palms.

It took me a few seconds, but the realization of what that globe of liquid was finally hit me. I am not ashamed to say, I almost shit myself at the realization.

It was _Invisible Death_. King of Poisons, with none deadlier. Its name was as apt as it was unimaginative. As a liquid, it was clear and colourless as water, but anyone who breathed even a whiff of it as a gas, would find his lungs failing him. Unable to breathe, the victim would perish within minutes. A most potent poison, and this emissary was about to disperse the globe into a cloud of death.

I did the only thing I could, snapping out my right hand and blasting a _Cone of Cold_ over the emissary and his ball of poison. I maintained the spell for many seconds, to make sure, beyond all doubt, that the poison was well and truly frozen. After ensuring that the emissary was frozen solid, I cast a targeted _Mana Clash_ to kill off the emissary, while making sure that the poison was not disturbed.

I turned my attention back to the room at large, but my help was no longer needed. Alistair and the rest had killed the remaining darkspawn while I was busy with the emissary.

We had precious little time to spare to permanently dispose of the poison, and I had neither the expertise nor knowledge to do so anyway. Thus I came up with the interim solution of freezing the emissary and the globe into a giant of cube of ice. I then carved into the ice, with some lyrium I had, a rune of frost, to ensure that it didn't melt prematurely. This whole process took almost five minutes, which was five minutes we did not have.

After the task was complete, we dashed out of the chamber, mindful of the fact that time was of the essence.

We went through some rooms, and more darkspawn fell under our onslaught. There was a large hole in one of the rooms we passed. That was, most likely, where the darkspawn had emerged out of the ground, and though it would have been enlightening to stop and inspect it, we could not spare the time to do so.

We reached a flight of stairs, and took it, two or three steps a time, up to the second floor of the tower. It was tiring, especially for me, but I pushed myself.

Through the tower we ran, never stopping. The darkspawn emerged from adjacent corridors in attempted ambushes, but we were always ready. It is hard to describe, but the taint allows us to detect, not just the presence of darkspawn, but also their intentions, such that we were always forewarned and forearmed of danger. All the darkspawns' ambushes were turned against them, and they were slaughtered.

This is not to say that we were never in any danger. Despite our advantages as Grey Wardens, and despite my advantages as a mage, the very first darkspawn ambush came close to succeeding.

We were exiting the second floor's main chamber, and had sensed that an ambush was coming, and were prepared for it.

When a door to our right burst open, we sprang into action immediately. A _Cone of Cold_ froze the two hurlocks that were just about to attack us, while my teammates moved forward to finish them off.

So when a door directly behind us clattered open, it caught us by surprise.

I barely managed to dodge out of the way, as the genlock's dagger almost sliced my neck open.

I stumbled back, as did the tower guard, who was armed with a bow and in no condition to fight in close quarters.

I used a _Cone of Cold_, managing to immobilize one genlock. In the narrow, enclosed corridors of the tower, I was unable to use my spells to their full strength, for fear of harming my team. Thus, the other genlock slipped past the radius of my spell, and almost stuffed a dagger into my face, save for Alistair. His sword swing took the genlock's arm off, and another swing took the creature's head off.

I gave my thanks to him, and we resolved to be cautious even as we made haste through the tower.

We fought and killed more darkspawn after that, before coming to another flight of stairs, which allowed us to climb up to the third floor. By this time, I was already breathing heavily, and tired of all that climbing.

We went through alcoves and rooms and corridors, and fought a never ending stream of darkspawn. They seemed innumerable, and endless. No matter how many we killed, there were always more around the corner, or in the next room. In one particular case, we were at the main chamber of the third floor, and darkspawn were pouring out of this alcove that we had to get through. There were so many of the creatures that they were literally falling over each other trying to get to us through the narrow archway. They made an easy target for a _Cone of Cold_, and for the follow-up _Fireball_, but even so, getting through that much darkspawn was not easy, nor quick.

Still, we soldiered on, and finally reached the third flight of stairs. We climbed, despite my legs lodging their vocal protest, up to the beacon chamber of the Tower of Ishal. Then there it was –

_Ogre_.

It was enormous, more than twice as tall as a human, four times as broad, and so muscle-bound it was perverse. People often say, of someone who has great strength, that he can "tear you apart". You could say the same for an ogre, except there it wouldn't be hyperbole, for this creature really was strong enough to tear you limb from limb. Its footsteps literally caused the ground to shake. And when it opened its great maw, and roared, you felt some animalistic terror grip you.

We faltered. Can you blame us? We were facing a monstrous thing, and whole companies of men have fled rather than fight this mighty juggernaut.

The ogre took a few steps forward, and then bent down to its right to pick up a slab of stone, bigger than me. The ogre shifted his weight, as if in preparation for a throw.

I tried to stop him. I snapped out a _Cone of Cold_, in an attempt to freeze the ogre before he could fling the massive stone at us.

But the ogre was too far away, my spell too weak from its hasty casting. The freezing cold covered the ogre, but it seemed not to bother him in the least. He grunted, and hurled the stone at us.

At least the spell seemed to have thrown off his aim, as the giant stone was launched into the wall to our left, the resounding crash echoing through the beacon chamber like thunder.

The ogre did not let up, charging at us with its head down and shoulders up, like a monstrous battering ram.

Again, I tried to stop it with a _Cone of Cold_, and again, with too little preparation time and with a creature so huge, the spell failed to incapacitate its target.

Still, it did seem to annoy the creature, for in response to the spell the creature veered its charge a little a little to its right. So instead of crushing our whole group to a pulp, it only caught the unfortunate soldier, ramming him into the wall with a sick crunch, and crushing his entire upper body into bloody, gory pulp.

The ogre didn't even seem fazed by the fact that he had just run headfirst into a solid stone wall. Turning with unexpected speed, its right arm lashed out. Again, I tried to stop him, and again, I failed. My _Cone of Cold_, once more far too weak due to its rushed casting, failed to freeze the ogre's limb, despite the covering of frost already on the creature's arm. The monster hit the tower guard with a brutal backhand, and the man was smacked back, flying a distance before hitting the ground. He did not get up.

Alistair moved forward to engage the beast, shield up and sword slashing forth, probing for weaknesses. The only one of note was the fact that the ogre was holding his right arm limply, and it appeared that my repeated cold spells did have some effect after all – just not enough of an effect to have saved the lives of our comrades in arms.

As I backed off to prepare a spell, Alistair danced around the beast. The ogre, with its left arm, lashed out, again and again, trying to grab Alistair. But my companion was too fast, and too agile, always keeping out of the ogre's reach, while his sword snaked out to slash the ogre on his arm every time the creature attacked.

But my spell was ready, and I screamed for Alistair to get out of the way. Alistair dived under the ogre arm's as it lunged, and scrambled away to the right.

I blasted my _Fireball_, hotter and denser than any I had prepared before, into the monstrous juggernaut. It caught the creature right in his chest, and I let the _Fireball_ explode. I gritted my teeth, as I struggled to contain the explosion, and to limit it to just a few square meters around ogre, rather than consuming all of us in the chamber.

When the immolating fire faded, the creature was gone, wiped from existence, and not even ashes remained.

It was over.

Alistair and I checked the soldier and the tower guard for vital signs, but it was a futile gesture of hope – they were dead, as men with caved-in chests and broken necks tended to be. But their sacrifice was not in vain, for we had reached our goal.

Leaving our dead comrades, I lit the beacon with a burst of fire.

I moved over to one of the chamber's south-facing windows, and looked out over the battlefield.

What I saw instilled in me a despair so deep that I almost choked.

The woods to our south was aflame. There was a veritable sea of torches, as uncountable and as innumerable as the stars in the sky above. The torches were moving, and the terrible truth is implied was that there was a darkspawn for every torch.

How many darkspawn were there? Who could tell? It could have been a hundred thousand, or two, or three. Whatever its size, the horde dwarfed the twenty thousand that Ferelden was fielding at Ostagar.

That was our third and most deadly mistake, in underestimating the sheer size of the horde.

I looked down into the valley, where the darkspawn had swamped almost its entire length. There was no visible fighting, which belied the fact that all our defenders in the valley – the King, Duncan, the Grey Wardens, everyone – were dead. Dread settled at the bottom of my stomach.

I looked over to the south-east, where Loghain's forces were. Torches marked their position, but there was no visible movement. Despite the signal, they had undertaken no charge, and made no attempt at a flanking manoeuvre.

Alistair, who had joined me at the window, noticed the same thing. He cried out in dismay and outrage. He pounded the window ledge, asking over and over, why Loghain's forces were not charging.

Personally, I didn't know which I found more terrifying – the fact that Loghain's forces were not charging, or the fact that even if they did, they would be crushed by the vastly greater darkspawn horde anyway.

It was over. The battle was lost. Stemming this tide of darkness was impossible.

No.

_No._

My pride battled with my despair, as it reminded me that, with magic, all things were possible.

You merely had to pay the price.

I closed my eyes.

I had to make a choice.

It was a difficult choice, but as with many difficult choices, it was ultimately no choice at all.

Against my duties as a Grey Warden, against the need to stop the darkspawn, against all those innocent lives that would otherwise be lost – my life was nothing.

So I used _Blood Magic_, reaching deep into my mind, and touching the point where I was connected to the Fade.

I wrenched the connection wide, wider than was natural, wider than was safe, wider than was wise.

I could feel the Fade, in all its pulsing intentionality. I could feel the power of the beyond. I felt that power flow into me, and with it, a titanic infusion of certainty.

I opened my eyes. Something about them must have changed, for when Alistair looked at me, he took a step back.

He asked me whether I was fine, and I told him to be quiet, for I had to concentrate.

I conjured a _Blizzard_, a freezing and howling storm colder than any winter. It is one the strongest spells a mage has in his arsenal, capable of freezing massive areas. I used it to just this effect, directing it against the Tower of Ishal itself, and turning to ice the whole of the tower's base and lower levels. Giant icicles, curved and wicked, were formed, jutting out of the ground and out of Ishal itself. No one and nothing could get into the tower now.

It would not do to be interrupted for the next step.

I looked out, at the countless torches that dotted the southern hills, all burning bright against the night sky, and from that infinity of small flames, I summoned an _Inferno_. No spell was stronger than the _Inferno_, for the more it consumed, the hotter it grew. I caressed the fiery tempest, and made it burn hotter, larger and longer, as it swallowed the whole of the horde. The fire reached for the sky, and at that moment I thought I had never seen anything more beautiful. I knew that everything and anyone caught in it was not merely burnt to ash, but immolated into nothingness.

For how long I sustained the inferno, I cannot say. But when the end came, it came suddenly. There was only pain, the breaking sound of something that ought not break, and then the darkness which swallowed me whole.

-(=DAO=)-

And that is how I earned my second epithet: _Hero of Ishal_. Not everyone called me that, of course, for not everyone knew of my altruistic heroism at Ostagar. Truth and lies are so hard to distinguish, sometimes, especially since lies are easily swallowed, while truth makes for a bitter pill.

And that is the story of how I scaled the Tower of Ishal to grasp victory against the darkspawn at Ostagar, though at the cost of something very precious to me.

Hmm? My tale only reinforces the notion that I am inclined towards dangerous magic, the sort of which devastated Denerim? I see. I see that very well.

-(=DAO=)-

Grand Inquisitor, you accuse me of a monstrosity, comparable to Dumat poisoning the minds of men! I say that I killed men without mercy; I saved the Circle of Magi from the demons of the Fade; I brought Arl Eamon back from the doors of death; I slew the werewolves of the Brecilian Forest; I rediscovered the Anvil of the Void; I threw down a pretender with my left hand and with my right crowned a King; I slew the Archdemon with my magic to quell the blight itself. In this courtroom of clowns, what need do I have of defending myself?

-(=DAO=)-

There is a city, dead and broken and shattered by blight and blood magic.

In the city, there is a room, vast and dark and silent.

In the room, there is a man whose guilt makes him fear the embrace of sleep.

-(=DAO=)-

A/N:

1\. Thank you for all the praise and encouragement, guys. It really motivated me to write the second chapter.

2\. Regarding similarities to _Game of Champions_ (the issue as raised by Drisful). I shamelessly admit to being influenced by Lamora's masterpiece, but I think the similarities also come from us both being influenced by Patrick Rothfuss's _Kingkiller Chronicles_. I don't think the similarities are bad – I strive to capture that sense of awe and wonder that both stories are so good at evoking. I also think that the similarities with GoC are somewhat unavoidable, inasmuch as it is a side-effect of writing a silent protagonist – one who never speaks directly in the context of the narrated story. Regardless, I believe that Amell and Red are very different, in terms of motivation (ruthless pursuit of the greater good vs. apotheosis) and personality (arrogant cock vs ambitious but nice guy).

3\. Apologies if this chapter is too similar to canon. _Blight-Queller_ is story of the Warden who ended the blight, and so in key respects it does follow canon. Ostagar is the one part of the storyline where there are the most similarities. I promise this will not be the case for the rest of the story (can you imagine Amell running off to find Andraste's ashes?).


	3. Chapter 3 - Blight-Queller I

**.  
Blight-Queller  
**_Chapter 3  
_Blight-Queller

-(=DAO=)-

There is a city, dead and broken and shattered by blight and blood magic.

In the city, there is a room, vast and dark and silent.

In the room, there is a man liable for a punishment not meted out since a millennia ago.

-(=DAO=)-

Grand Inquisitor, you demand that your questions be answered, precisely and to the point, without meandering digressions on my part. Very well then – my answer will be short and succinct, so that we can cut to the heart of the matter. I understand that you are eager to bring the hammer of justice down upon my head, so listen carefully now, as I end my story.

-(=DAO=)-

We have spoken of names and of heroism, but now, since we are at the beginning of the end, we need to speak of sacrifice.

As with names, and as with heroism, sacrifice is of three kinds.

One, there is sacrifice as prudence. You give up an unimportant interest, to achieve an important one. This happens in our everyday lives, from the student who burns midnight oil so that he is ready for the next day's exam, to the warrior who engages in punishing training everyday to improve his mastery of arms.

Two, there is sacrifice as benevolence. You put aside your own interests, for that of others. This kind of sacrifice is rarer than the first, for people are inherently selfish.

Three, there is sacrifice as consequentialism. An esoteric term that the scholars at the University of Orlais employ, it means the pursuit of what is best for the world, even if it means trampling on the interests of some individuals. This kind of sacrifice is regrettably common, because men often mistake convenience for necessity.

-(=DAO=)-

I am myself a great admirer of sacrifice. If there's one thing that history has taught us, it is that every problem can be solved by throwing enough death and human suffering at it. Is there a grand temple to be built? A war to be won? A world to conquer? All that and more is possible, if you don't mind sending bodies into the meat-grinder.

You may not find this surprising, but I too subscribe to the philosophy of consequentialism, wherein it is consequences that ultimately matter. I believe that it is justifiable to harm innocents so as to prevent a greater harm from befalling a greater number. Some people object to this, saying that there are inviolable rules of behaviour that should never be broken. They believe that there are some things that we should never do, even if inaction leads to disaster. This has always seemed bizarre to me, for surely if you care about other people, then you care about _what happens to them_, not just about what_ you _do to them. We all think that murder is wrong, because people dying is a bad thing, but then it follows that we should try to prevent deaths as much as possible, even if we have to kill to do it. We need to accept that sometimes we need to dirty our hands with evil deeds so as to bring about the greater good.

My childhood in the Circle Tower made this idea abundantly clear to me. Let me tell you a tragic tale, Grand Inquisitor. You are aware about the adoption system in place within the Circle of Magi, are you not? Young children, especially the babes plucked from their mothers' breasts, need to be brought up and cared for. So the Circle puts them under the primary care of older mages with the willingness and disposition for parenting. I myself was brought up by a mage couple, and though I always knew that they weren't my birth parents, I was still very fond of them. They doted on me, and were for all intents and purposes my parents. My younger childhood was a relatively happy affair.

But you know how it is – all good things come to an end. My father became increasingly angry and depressed with life as both his relationship and his magi project soured. He took to drinking, which obviously only made his relationship and his project fail even faster. It was a vicious cycle, and the more he drunk, the more abusive he became towards my mother. He beat her, among other things. She wasn't a very skilled mage, and was a healer besides, and so wasn't really capable of defending herself. Ironically, because of her magic, she could always heal herself up after every instance of drunken abuse. And since she never told anyone, nobody knew about the abuse – until it was too late. To be fair, I didn't tell anyone either – because I was still a child, too young to grasp that what he was doing was utterly unacceptable, and too afraid to do anything anyway.

One day, after the end of class, I returned home to my family's quarters, to find her a bloody, broken unconscious mess. He, meanwhile, was dead drunk and near the edge of unconsciousness himself. That scene is etched into my mind, and even now I can recall with perfect clarity every detail. I remember the spots of red on the bedsheet, the noisy gurgle as he drank from his bottle of whiskey, and above all the smell – of blood and alcohol and this other thick odor I did not manage to identify until I was much older.

Do you know what I felt? Not fear. Not disbelief. Not even hatred. What entered my heart at the sight of that scene, was the calm certainty of conviction. My conviction was sharp, flawless and as deadly as any sword. And with that conviction driving me, I set him alight. Not something mage children of my age could do, but I was always the exceptional talent. You couldn't say the same of him, though. He merely screamed and rolled about, unable to put the fire out as any competent mage should be. Then he was still, the fire having consumed him.

Did you know that burnt human smells remarkably like cooked pig? It's true. And I will remember that day, and that smell, until the day I die. Even now roasted pork is a favourite dish of mine – because it reminds me that I did the right thing that day. I do not regret what I did; my only regret was that I didn't do it earlier. What I did, I did to stop him. It is said that no man is as accursed as the kinslayer. It is said that killing one's own family, even those not truly of one's blood, is one of the most heinous crimes one can commit. It is said that there is no evil greater than this. Well, shit on whoever said that. I did what I had to do, and if I had to drench my own hands with my father's blood to stop him from beating and raping my mother, than so be it. Spare me your pity, Grand Inquisitor. I spit on it.

In the end, I managed to fetch help, and with magical healing my mother made a full recovery. Physically, at least – magic cannot heal the scars of the heart. She requested a transfer out of the Ferelden Circle Tower, and it was granted. As for what I did, it was written off as a case of trauma-triggered accidental magic, so of course I wasn't punished for what I did. Instead, I was transferred to the care of Senior Enchanter Irving, whose job it was to see that I got proper emotional support to get over that trauma.

But really, if anything, the event was not a trauma, but a teaching point – of the idea that there if you are serious about protecting other people, you had better be ready to bloody your hands.

This is not as controversial an idea as it would seem. Lady Andraste herself was quite the ruthless bitch when she had to be. Ignorant people talk about how the Maker punished the Tevinter Imperium with drought and flooding and famine. Ha! All the evidence points towards Andraste being a terribly powerful mage. She destroyed the Tevinter harvest, which starved their armies and cities into submission. How many tens of thousands of innocents did Andraste kill, to achieve her goal of destroying slavery and the Tevinter Imperium? She didn't invent the use of starvation as a military tactic, but she certainly perfected it. The Tevinters even have a name for it: _hunger-death_. For however little it's worth, my opinion is that she did the right thing. Slavery needed to be destroyed, whatever the cost.

Sacrifice is necessary if you wish to prevent some greater evil – no amount of naivety can deny this harsh truth of how the world works.

-(=DAO=)-

This same truth applies to combating the Fifth Blight.

Do you realize what a desperate position we were in? Even after we – or rather, I – destroyed the darkspawn army at our pyrrhic victory at Ostagar, there were still hundreds of thousands of them left. Did you see the death they brought down on the Korcari wilds? It is estimated that thousands of Chasind died as the horde swept out from the depths of the forest, with thousands more fleeing north to the illusory safety of Ferelden proper.

And as the horde slaughtered its way north into the Hinterlands, the Southron Hills, and the Drakon plains, so too did blight disease spread. Many more thousands died from it, and these were the lucky ones, to be honest. Others mutated, with afflictions ranging from tumours on your skin to spikes growing out of your face. The really unfortunate souls are the ones that survive in agonizing pain as they turn into mindless ghouls that will eventually eat their own family if given the chance.

And of course, as the horde spread into the Bannorn, so too did the fields wither, the waters turn black with poison, and the sky itself become overcast with darkness. Ferelden lost a great deal of its food, with the autumn harvest but a fraction of the usual amount. The population was facing a winter of starvation. Come spring, countless would be dead, felled not by the sword, but by hunger.

The horde controlled much of Ferelden. And in truth, if the Archdemon had wished so, the horde could have consumed the whole of the country within a month of Ostagar. They could have marched all the way north, and taken Denerim itself. Who was left to stop them? Our army was decimated, and the remaining forces under Loghain too small to do anything against the massed power of the horde.

Ferelden was small enough a nation that a single defeat was cataclysmic. And let us be honest – the victory we gained at Ostagar was almost indistinguishable from defeat. If we were the size Orlais or the Anderfels or even the Tevinter Imperium of old, we could have afforded to lose a few pitched battles here and there and suffer some losses, since the darkspawn would still have to march a fair distance to take key cities. All the while, guerrilla warfare could be used to slow their advance and pick them off. In Ferelden, we had no such luxury. Denerim was as vulnerable to the horde as a naked babe.

Neither did we have the time we needed. There was no time to reforge our broken army. No time to raise more troops from within Ferelden, to put up even a token defence. Nor, certainly, did we have the time needed for external military support to arrive, to give us a fighting chance.

And yet the time and breathing space we desperately craved, we got. Somehow, the darkspawn advance halted. They were content with rampaging throughout the Bannorn, while the bulk of the horde stayed south in the Korcari wilds. Only later did I learn that the Archdemon, in his infinite cunning, had decided to play politics. By keeping the vast part of the horde hidden in the Korcari wilds, and by staying out of sight himself, it made people wonder whether this was a true Blight at all. It gave them hope – and drunk on that hope, they naively and foolishly believed this was merely a darkspawn incursion without any Archdemon to lead it.

And it worked, didn't it? Aside from Orlais and the token force of chevaliers it sent, the world slumbered. Where were the mighty Magister Lords of the Tevinter Imperium, and the terrifying magics that once brought the world to heel? Where were the vaunted soldiers of the Anderfels, and their legendary military prowess? Where were the wealthy Antivans, and the mercenary army they could easily afford to hire thrice over?

Nowhere. They were complacent, and the Archdemon knew that. As the horde grew in strength, and as Ferelden burned, the world dithered. The Archdemon was confident that, when the time came, the subjugation of Ferelden would be the easy work of a few days. He thought that when he finally took to the field of battle, no mortal man could stand up to him. The dragon was utterly certain of his own godlike power.

And why wouldn't he be? Who could possibly stand in his way? Who could murder a god?

-(=DAO=)-

I could. Or at least, I thought I could. Me and my motley band of fools and madmen.

After I passed out from my overuse of blood magic atop the Tower of Ishal, Alistair and I were rescued by Flemeth. Yes, _that_ Flemeth. The legendary Witch of the Wilds. She told us of the full extent of what transpired at Ostagar, and of how, in the week I had been unconscious, Ferelden had been utterly overrun by the horde. And with the rest of the Ferelden Wardens dead, it fell to us to stop the Fifth Blight. Our plan was as simple as it was ambitious – to use the Grey Warden treaties we had recovered to gather as many allies as we could. Mage or human, dwarf or elf, it mattered not – we needed their help. We would gather an army vast enough to bring the horde to a decisive battle, where we would kill the Archdemon himself.

That day, I swore that I would do whatever it took to stop the Blight. That I would end it, by whatever means necessary. That I would pay any price, bear any burden, and make any sacrifice to see the Archdemon dead and his army shattered. Alistair too, consumed by rage and grief, resolved to finish what Duncan had started. Morrigan, under her mother's hectoring, agreed to aid us, though it was only much later that I learnt her true purpose. And in Lothering, we would be joined by Leliana, a lay Chantry sister who believed that it was her religious duty to stop the Blight. We were quite the group! The apostate, kicked out of the Circle for consorting with demons. The templar-recruit, who didn't even finish his training. The barbarian witch, who had no social skills to speak of. The delusional bard, who thought she could speak to the Maker. Honestly, Morrigan was the most psychologically stable amongst us, which says a lot, I think.

Four of us. Four against the world. It was a journey of a thousand miles, and we had not even taken a single step. Even then, the enormity of our task loomed large in my mind. I understood, in a way that Alistair did not, that we were going to have to do some morally detestable things if we were to succeed in raising our army. But even so, I had underestimated just how much evil we had to do. As the old saying goes, _the road to hell is paved with good intentions, the road to heaven with corpses_. Even before Denerim –

...

I do not appreciate interruptions, Grand Inquisitor. But fine. _Fine_. If you insist, then I'll skip straight to the end.

Let's ignore what happened at Lothering, and how I killed a bunch of starving farmers who attacked us, rather than give them the gold we had gathered for our journey.

Let's ignore the tragedy that broke the Circle, and how I cut my way through the possessed bodies of my dearest friends so that I could kill the demons occupying the tower and save as many mages as I could.

Let's ignore the calamity that befell Redcliffe, and how I tortured a fellow mage to the brink of madness, so that I could learn the name of the poison used on Arl Eamon.

Let's ignore the beastly horror that lay within Brecilian Forest, and how I slaughtered the once-human werewolves so that I could bring the elves over to our side.

Let's ignore the desperate journey we undertook to find the Anvil of the Void, and how I let a Paragon enslave souls with it, just so that we could end the dwarven succession crisis and just so that we could have our war golems.

Let's ignore the chicanery surrounding the Landsmeet, and how I threatened and manipulated and bribed the nobles, so that I could crown a king of my choosing.

Yes, let us dismiss these events as _unimportant_, and go straight to the only part of my story that you actually care about.

The Catastrophe of Denerim.

-(=DAO=)-

It was the day after the Landsmeet.

The light of the rising sun was banishing the darkness. I stepped out onto the balcony, and the cold morning air greeted me. Below, the gardens of the palace stretched into the distance, a welcome sight to my tired eyes.

The King stood with his back towards me, looking out into distance. I made my footsteps loud and conspicuous, but he didn't turn. I joined him in staring out at nothing in particular, but neither of us spoke. It was not the companionable silence of old, but a new silence of quiet hostility, that men resort to when the only alternative is angry words. The silence stretched between us, not unlike an unbridgeable chasm.

I was the first to break it. I chose my words carefully, to avoid opening any still raw wounds.

"The Chantry is still up in arms – figuratively. As you know, Grand Cleric Elemena was vocally opposed to me – a mage – taking part in the Landsmeet Duel. Magic exists to serve man, and never to rule over him, and that kind of nonsense. The Templars are minded to agree in her opinion that the outcome of the Landsmeet was tainted and thus illegal. I'll be meeting them today, to dissuade them from entertaining the notion of taking up actual arms against us."

I ran my hand through my hair. It was oily and unwashed. Things like hygiene weren't of much importance in comparison to the possibility of armed insurrection.

"And on a more important topic – our scouts have not been sending in any new reports. So far as we can tell, there are marauding groups in the Bannorn, but the greater part of the horde is still in the Korcari wilds. Nor has the Archdemon been sighted yet, though of course, we know that he's out there somewhere."

The Fifth Blight – the looming shadow, always there, never far from our thoughts, like a sword hanging over all our necks.

"This gives us the time we need to restore some semblance of law and justice to Ferelden –"

Too late, I realized that I may not have chosen my words carefully enough. Without missing a beat, the king turned to me and growled,

"_Justice_? You dare talk about _justice_? After you decided to let Loghain live despite all the crimes he'd committed?"

And there it was. Letting Loghain live. The issue that divided us, as completely as the horizon divides the sky above from the earth beneath our feet. I sighed. I resisted the urge to bury my face in my hands, and settled for rubbing my eyes instead. I hadn't slept at all, and between the fatigue and the emotional tension my nerves were frayed. I did not need to deal with this right now.

"Alistair, for the last time, we need Loghain alive. Don't be naive. The civil war wasn't going to end just because we killed him. To many Fereldans, especially the common people, Loghain is a hero. His name is mentioned alongside the likes of Calenhad and Maric –"

The King's glare sharpened.

"Don't you _dare_ go there."

My frustration boiled up. Frustration at Alistair, for his unrelenting stubbornness. At myself, for being stupid enough to bring up an issue as sensitive as Alistair's father. At the world, even, for placing the crushing weight of responsibility onto my shoulders.

"Look, Alistair if we had killed him, he would have become a martyr. Those loyal to him – and there are still a fucking lot of them – would have rallied to avenge the fallen hero. The civil war would have continued, and Ferelden would have destroyed itself without the darkspawn needing to lift a single sword. And when the horde does come for our heads, even the massacre at Ostagar will be nothing in comparison."

The King's eyes narrowed even further, if that was possible, and his anger was palpable. He was momentarily speechless, as if his rage could find no words to properly express itself. When he finally spoke, he could only choke out a single word, that was half a curse, and half an accusation.

"_Ostagar_?"

Once again frustration reared its head, but this time it was directed exclusively at myself. Was I so tired and unthinking that I couldn't string two sentences together without enraging my friend? What possessed me to bring up Ostagar? It was the event that made Alistair hate Loghain with a single-minded passion, and of all things I had to bring it up? I've always prided myself on my silver-tongue, but today it seemed that I had contracted a case of foot-in-mouth disease.

"Alistair. Listen to me, please. By sparing Loghain, and by making him publicly affirm his loyalty to you and your authority, his supporters have no reason to continue fighting. Their hero has asked them to put down their swords, and they did. Just like that, the civil war is ended, no one else will die a needless death, and we can finally unite against the Blight. Nothing else matters."

Alistair looked at me. His own anger had faded, to be replaced by a terrible coldness. With a flat voice, he said,

"Justice matters. Justice for Duncan. For the Wardens slain at Ostagar by Loghain's treachery. For the thousand others who died in the civil war that _he_ started. We came here to bring him to justice, and justice demanded that he die for his crimes. We were supposed to avenge Loghain's victims, and let their ghosts rest in peace. We were supposed to make him pay for what he did. But instead of giving him his just deserts, we rewarded him. Joining the Wardens is an honour, not a punishment. I told you yesterday that I would not stand for this, and I _won't_ – if you will not serve justice to Loghain, then consider my resignation from the Wardens permanent, because I will _not_ stay and call a murderer a friend."

There was nothing else to say. In fact, there was nothing else that could be said. We were at an impasse – his justice against the greater good I sought. We had clashed many times over this very issue, during our travels and travails to raise an army. In all those cases, Alistair had ultimately accepted my decision. But sparing Loghain was a bridge Alistair would never be willing to cross.

Alistair looked away from me. When he spoke, I could hear a faint sadness.

"Is this what we've come to, Amell? Our enemies are our friends, and our friends our enemies? Do what you want."

And then he turned around and left.

There was a finality to the scene that I didn't like.

But like it or not, I had an insurrection to head off. A world to save. A country to govern. What did losing a friend matter? I had killed more at my homecoming to the Circle Tower.

-(=DAO=)-

The office was large, its walls lined with bookshelves full to bursting. I sat at the large oaken table in the centre of the room, slumped in my chair. Across me sat Knight-Commander Tavish, leader of Denerim Templars.

He cut an imposing figure. Tall, blond, and with a jaw that looked to have been chiselled out of granite, he looked every inch the hero. And in his polished templar armour, he did indeed look like the literal knight in shining armour. His sword, beautiful, ornate, and looking very much like a dragon-slaying sword out of legend, was propped up next to his chair, near to hand.

And the knight was glaring at me, the mistrust in his eyes clear as day. Perhaps he thought that he was the hero of the story, here to confront the evil magician who had taken over the country. I almost certainly looked the part – gaunt, dressed in Tevinter robes, and with a Magister Lord's staff casually leaning onto the back of my chair. If this were a fairytale, he would fight and defeat me, and then everyone would live happily ever after.

But life is not a fairytale.

I gathered my thoughts, and spoke,

"Knight-Commander Tavish. Thank you for coming to see me so early in the morning. My time is precious, as is yours, so I will not waste any on pleasantries.

"You know very well that the Chantry is deeply unhappy with how the Landsmeet went yesterday. They think it unspeakably wrong that the fate of the country was decided by a duel in which a mage took part. Magic must serve men, and not rule over them, and so on. More generally, they think that Ferelden is now heading the way of the Tevinter Imperium, with mages lording it over ordinary people. And you know, just as I do, that at this very moment the Templars are preparing to take up arms in the name of the Maker. They do so fully believing that they are justified, that they are in the right. They will seek to violently cleanse the city of infidels and apostates and maleficars. In short, they will start a new exalted march."

I didn't need blood magic to read his mind to know that he was one of those who took a low opinion of mages in general, and of me in particular.

"We can't have that, of course. If the Templars were to start a religious crusade, countless people will die. Worse – it will weaken us further at a time when we need to be united against the Blight."

The Knight-Commander was tense as he took in my words.

"That is the problem. And here is the solution. The Denerim Templars will disarm. You are to surrender all your weapons to the armoury at Fort Drakon. You have until twelve noon today to do so."

My proclamation was met with stunned silence, but that was soon broken by the Knight-Commander's outraged protestations.

"This is unacceptable! It is detestable enough that a mage such as yourself is pulling the strings behind your puppet king. And now you have the audacity to demand that we disarm and deliver ourselves to your tender mercies? I categorically refuse!"

The Knight-Commander was red-faced by the time he was done with voicing his rejection. He glared at me, his eyes blazing hatred. It was a very impressive glare, all things considered. If glares were a kind of weapon, I would already have been a tiny smear of blood across the room.

But glares are not weapons, no more than life is a fairytale.

I was slouching in my chair, but made myself sit up. This next part was crucial. I spoke slowly, enunciating every word with the greatest care.

"I do not make requests, Knight-Commander. I give orders. I would rather settle this peacefully, but I am not adverse to doing this the hard and bloody way.

"If you choose to reject the order to disarm, then I will kill you. Right here. Right now. I will paint this office red with your blood."

At this point, the Knight-Commander was so tense he seemed halfway out of his chair. He had gripped the hilt of his sword, ready to rip it out at any moment.

"And then I will find and eviscerate every Templar in the city, and festoon the Denerim market district with their guts."

My speech was ludicrously bombastic. It was so hideously overblown that spouting it almost made me want to cringe. You may well say that this was the kind of melodramatic nonsense a third-rate playwright of revenge tragedies would come up with. And you would be right, because I was borrowing the lines from a play I recalled watching at Lothering. Written by some amateur bard, it was about Ferelden's War of Independence, and these lines were from Maric swearing vengeance against the Orlesians who killed his mother – Moira, the Rebel Queen. The whole play was complete horseshit, with the subtlety of a hammer to the face, but subtlety wasn't what I needed at the moment.

"And after that,"

At this point, I handed a small sheaf of papers to the Knight-Commander.

"I will find and kill everyone on this list."

That last line I delivered quietly, in contrast to my loud, brash voice before. I used no violent, intimidatory imagery. I didn't need to.

The Knight-Commander's face morphed from a rictus of rage to the slack-jaw of shock, as he read what I had handed him. He muttered, more to himself than to me.

"The names and addresses of every templar's family..."

Indeed. Templars for a particular city or town tend to be drawn from that very same place. It makes sense, of course. It's easier to enforce your authority when the populace trusts you, and it's easier to be trusted when your Templars are all local boys whom the people would have known since they were in swaddling clothes. It also helps if your Templars are familiar with local customs and problems. But above all, any man would be more motivated in protecting a local populace when it's their own family and friends they were guarding.

But by that same logic, someone unscrupulous could turn those family and friends into hostages.

As I was doing.

The Knight-Commander looked at me, his face still betraying his horror. In a strangled voice, he said,

"Even _you_ would not..."

He had a fair point. If I were to manage to kill every Templar in the city, and thus head off a potential Chantry insurrection, what need would I have after that to kill innocents? I have done things that will make even the demons of the fade blush in contrition, but everything I do, I do out of necessity, and killing the innocent relatives of the Templars, after having already put down the insurrection, would in no way be necessary.

But the Knight-Commander didn't need to know that. So I fixed the biggest sneer I could summon onto my face, and said,

"Have you forgotten who I am?"

The Knight-Commander stared at me. The horror had faded from his face, and now it was a mask of ice.

"No. I have not forgotten."

Of course he hadn't. My reputation, both in actual deeds and exaggerated rumours, revolved around me, and I could no more escape it than I could escape the gravity of the earth beneath my feet.

Another person making the same threat that I was making would be liable to being laughed off as a fool and a madman. But when I made threats, people believed me. Why not? I've done worse, and everyone knows that.

This didn't settle the matter, though. It was one thing to believe me willing to slaughter their families. It is another to believe that the only way to avoid it is to cooperate, rather than to fight.

I could see the gears of his mind working, as the Knight-Commander considered whether he would be capable of putting his sword through my neck before I immolated him.

I had to put such notions out of his mind.

Again, in a quiet voice, I said,

"Before you do something foolish like drawing your sword in a futile attempt to take my life, let me ask you again. Have you forgotten who I am?"

The Knight-Commander's eyes met mine. He looked at me, and what he saw was not a tired man half dead from exhaustion. No. He saw only the man who had bested the demons of the fade, and who slaughtered a hundred thousand darkspawn at Ostagar. He probably also saw other things – other deeds – which I had not done, but which rumour attributes to me.

He looked at me, and saw my reputation. And he was afraid.

After a long silence, the Knight-Commander finally spoke, in a tone of calm resignation. I've heard that tone before. Men use it when the illusion of choice is stripped away, and they make the only choice left to them. Surrender, in this case.

"We will disarm, if you promise to guarantee the Templar Order and our families safety."

"Promise given."

"Then I have nothing more to say to you."

The Knight-Commander stood up, and headed out of the room. But before he left, he turned around, and said solemnly.

"I pity you, sir, for you will go to hell."

He left before I could say anything in response, witty or otherwise.

I slumped back into my chair, and whispered, almost inaudibly, to the empty room,

"... no hell but the world we live in..."

I had a hundred things to do today, and dozens of people to meet. Speaking to Knight-Commander Tavish was but the first of many appointments that I would have to keep.

I was tired. So very tired. Which was unfortunate, because there is no rest to be had for the wicked.

The door opened as the palace assistant showed the next visitor in.

Grand Cleric Elemena entered the office. She was an old woman, as Grand Clerics are wont to be. It would be easy to underestimate her, and treat her as a harmless old coot. But fools do not become Grand Clerics. Leliana once told me that politics within the Chantry can be just as vicious as the legendary court intrigues in Orlais. I reminded myself not to see the Grand Cleric as anything but a powerful political actor.

Despite appearances to the contrary, she would not be easier to cow than the Knight-Commander had been.

"Grand Cleric Elemena. I appreciate you agreeing to meet me so early in the morning. May I offer you coffee?"

I lifted the jug of cold black liquid in indication.

"No, thank you."

I shrugged, and poured myself another cup, which I downed in one go. It was really good – imported from Orlais, I was told. Idly, I wondered whether that could be considered a sign of insufficient patriotism on the part of coffee merchants.

I took in the severe face of the Grand Cleric, and spoke casually. Or at least, I tried to appear to speak casually. In reality, all the words I was about to say had all been chosen with the utmost delicacy. It's just the game of politics we play – where deception is everything.

"Very well. The reason I asked for this meeting is that we have important matters to discuss. The times change, and we must change with the times. In particular, I do not believe that the current relationship that the Chantry and the Government of Ferelden – between church and state – is optimal. Many of the old state-enforced church-doctrines that legislate upon individual behaviour – banning apostasy, blasphemy and adultery, for instance – are, I think, outdated."

_You're an intolerant old hag who wants to use the law to enforce your own opinions on others._

"Many reasonable people would say such laws are unfair, and that their liberties as free citizens of Ferelden are being tyrannically curtailed."

_How would you like it if I outlawed the Chantry, you miserable old coot?_

"And so to address these very reasonable concerns, it has been decided that the Government of Ferelden will no longer enforce Chantry law on what are, essentially, private matters.

_Long live liberty! That, and it would seriously inconvenience me if the criers I hired to spread slander about the Chantry and undermine your public support, were arrested for blasphemy._

I had these, and many other unpleasant things to say to this woman who represented the Chantry and everything I hated about it, but of course I couldn't say any of it. I had to content myself with enjoying the Grand Cleric's facial reaction as she sat there listening to me spout circuitous platitudes – under which lay a declaration of war. The mask of dignified and gentle wisdom that the Grand Cleric wore slipped for just a fraction of a second, as she realized that I had just disowned the Chantry as the state religion.

And then the counterattack began. The Grand Cleric's words were all perfectly courteous and proper, but there was no mistaking the threat they implied.

"Warden, I would urge you to reconsider this unwise decision. The Templars are already in an uproar as it is, and I do not know if I can dissuade them from rash action if you were to announce this most provocative policy.

_Threatening to turn your dogs onto me? Too late, old woman. I've domesticated your templars._

"Moreover, in troubled times such as these, change as radical as what you are proposing will be most upsetting to the people."

_Meaning you'll sow discontent in the populace and turn that against the new king. Annoying, but propaganda works both ways._

"On the other hand, the Chantry and its charitable efforts will be of immense help in stabilizing the new king's rule, especially if we work together."

_Damn you, you doddery old fart. Do you think to take advantage of the current bread shortage? Do you think I won't do anything about the fact that if the Chantry were to shut down its food banks, there would be riots within a week?_

And on it went. She would, under honeyed words, threaten to instigate general political instability, and I had to sit there and pretend otherwise. Then I would say something equally honeyed, and equally poisoned.

"Your Grace, cooperation with the Chantry is something I desire above all else –"

_I would rather have a Broodmother eat my face than cooperate with the likes of you._

"– but certain factions within the nobility, especially those who remember how the Chantry collaborated with the Orlesians during the Occupation –"

_Traitorous quislings. Wasn't Loghain in favour of executing the lot of you, before Maric overruled him?_

"– are urging me to take a harder line against you, with one particular suggestion being that Chantry proselytizing privileges be severely restricted, the same way we do to the Qunaris."

_So don't fuck me, old woman, or I will ban your priests from opening their mouths in public. _

Having made my threat, I sat back.

_Your move, Your Grace._

To her credit, the Grand Cleric smiled as if nothing was wrong. Her voice perfectly cordial, she voiced the offer of a temporary ceasefire,

"That is most troubling news. Let me confer with my colleagues, and we can discuss this at a further date. I look forward to speaking with you again.

_Very well then. And like the mature adults that we're supposed to be, we agree not to burn Denerim to the ground in the meantime._

I put on the most obsequious and insincere smile I could force onto my face, as I bid her farewell.

"It has been an honour speaking to you, Your Grace. I feel enlightened and edified by your very presence."

For some reason, the first rule of politics seemed to be that you do not, ever, openly acknowledge the use of sarcasm, no matter how thinly veiled. Thus the Grand Cleric had to accept my barb of a parting gift. Of course, she returned the favour.

"May the Maker watch over you."

I smiled, to cover the fact that I was grinding my teeth together. I called for my assistant to show the Grand Cleric out the door, though personally I would have preferred to defenestrate her out through the glass windows.

The second battle of the day was over. And the war, of course, was not won. I took another cup of coffee.

I had about half a minute of precious rest, and before I knew it, my assistant showed the next visitor in.

Where Knight-Commander Tavish was imposing and Grand Cleric Elemena was dignified, Goodman Peel had a friendly, honest, open face, the sort that people tend to trust.

I disliked him already.

Peel was a merchant, a prominent member of the local community, and a member of the Denerim Chantry. Strictly speaking, he had no official role within the church, the same way a Mother or a Templar would, but he was important nonetheless. It was upon Peel that the Grand Cleric relied to operate the food bank – from buying flour, to registering those who came begging for food, to distributing the bread itself. And so it would be upon Peel and his sense of conscience that I would have to prevail, if I were to defang the Grand Cleric's threat to weaponize the bread shortage.

Ha. Ten of these merchants would scarcely have a whole conscience between them.

No. It would be to Peel's sense of profits that I appealed – nothing else. And what a strong sense of it he had.

Peel was a active and enthusiastic member of the Denerim Chantry – but I know his kind. They see it as a kind of investment – to burnish their reputation, to sooth their conscience, and to save their eternal soul. Peel, despite his involvement in the Chantry, was not especially religious, and was definitely no saint. Saints don't embezzle the money the Chantry raises to feed the poor and the hungry and the desperate. Saints don't fiddle the account books. Saints definitely don't mix sawdust into flour just so to make the bread baked seem more filling than it is actually nutritious.

I smiled at him, and the merchant hurriedly gave a bow in return.

There was no hard evidence of his misdeeds, of course, but there were rumours, of this and of less-than-scrupulous behaviour in his other business dealings. It gave me a feel of his personality, and his motivations.

Ah, what a relief it was to deal with a normal, selfish person. Religious zealots are so much more inflexible.

"Goodman Peel, it was good of you to answer my request for us to speak."

"Sir, it was no trouble at all. In fact, it is quite the honour for a man as lowly as myself to meet the Hero of Ishal. Whatever it is that you wish to speak about, I will do my utmost to be of service."

Flattery? I wasn't interested in verbal fellatio in the least, but if Peel was the sycophantic sort, it would make my job a lot of easier. I prodded a bit more.

"If I may ask, Goodman Peel, what is the general opinion of merchant class, as to the victory of the rightful King Alistair at the Landsmeet yesterday?"

Peel took the bait.

"Sir, we are all delighted that a son of Maric once again sits the throne of Ferelden. Teyrn Loghain, whatever his past glories, was running the country and its economy into the ground. The merchant class is utterly confident in the King and in yourself, sir – in your ability to lead us out of this crisis."

Definitely the sycophantic sort.

"I will be frank, Goodman Peel. I understand that you help the Chantry with their food banks. It is, of course, a most admirable enterprise. My only concern is the Chantry's requirement that all claimants, after receiving their loaf of bread, are to attend weekly prayer sessions, or else face being cut off from further charity. The Chantry might take the view that suffering is redemptive, and that it will turn people to the Maker, but some – myself included – are discomfited by such views."

Was it my imagination, or was the unctuous smile on Peel's face slipping ever so slightly?

"We are deeply concerned, that, with the recent bread shortage, many people are suffering, needlessly."

Peel's smiled was visibly strained now.

"Thus, it would be much appreciated – by the King himself, no less – if the Chantry were to relax its rigorous requirements when it comes to the distribution of bread at its food banks. Wouldn't you agree that, in the current crisis, that it is the only humane thing to do?"

Certainly it was the humane thing to do – and besides, it would also bind the Chantry's hands. As it was, food aid went to the relatively devout – those who wouldn't resent the Chantry if the Grand Cleric made good her threat to me to shut down the food banks. Any discontent that arose would be directed against the state – and hence, me. But if food aid were given freely, no matter one's religious inclinations, then cutting off aid became politically dangerous for the Grand Cleric herself. Any discontent unleashed would likely burn the Chantry as well – making her threat an empty one.

Peel responded in a hurry, his words tumbling out as he sought to reject my request without seeming to do so.

"Sir, I do most wholeheartedly agree that the Chantry's policy is less than generous. However, I'm afraid that I cannot help in regards to changing it. It is the Her Grace the Grand Cleric who makes policy – perhaps you should raise the matter with her? I am sure she will be most happy to discuss this with you."

She would love to hang it over my head, perhaps. Which was why I was here, talking to Peel about this matter, and not to the Grand Cleric.

I stared at Peel. It must have been unnerving, for he looked away.

I considered what avenues of conversation to take with Peel – on how to obliquely secure his cooperation via enticements, without making it too obvious that I was offering a bribe.

But I was tired. I didn't have the energy or the concentration to go through, again, what I just went through with the Grand Cleric. Besides, Peel, if I was reading him correctly, was the greedy, unscrupulous sort – the sort most susceptible to bribes. There was little to no chance of him rejecting the offer I would make. So I dropped all pretence of subtlety, and went for a naked appeal to greed.

"To change the subject completely, Goodman Peel. I understand that you have many business interests, and amongst them numbers an interest in the lyrium trade. Now – it might interest you to know that the new government is considering issuing more permits for lyrium potion making."

Peel's eyes bulged out. This is no hyperbole. They literally did. I didn't blame him. Because of how the Chantry – via the state-enforced permit-system – allowed only a vanishingly few number of apothecaries to produce lyrium potions, it was massively lucrative. Huge profits could be made in importing lyrium dust from Ozarmmar, producing the potions, and then selling them on. There was no shortage of buyers – craftsmen, addicted nobles, rogue mages. I should know – since I myself made a massive killing during my travels, by illegally making and selling potent lyrium potions.

The merchant was almost in a daze – probably calculating the enormous profits that awaited him if he were to get his hands on a permit.

If.

I brought him back to earth.

"But of course, Goodman Peel, we can only issue such permits to those that we can trust. It wouldn't do if lyrium potions were to fall into the hands of undesirable elements such as maleficars, now would it?"

I was being a massive stinking hypocrite, seeing as I was one myself – _Amell the Maleficar_, possibly the most infamous one in recent history – but Peel was good enough to ignore that. He was paying attention now – truly paying attention.

"Our trust can be secured – effortlessly – if you were to agree to suspend the requirement imposed at the food banks."

Easily done, of course. I knew it, and Peel knew it. You just had to fiddle the records in the Chantry's registers, and Peel was, if nothing, a most accomplished fiddler.

Peel nodded – slowly at first, and then more vigorously.

"Then this concludes our business. Carry out your end of the bargain, and we will speak again in week."

He still seemed partly dazed as he was shown out of the room.

Mentally, I scratched off the third item on the long list of things I had to do today.

But there would be a fourth. And a fifth. And so on.

I sighed. It would be a long day ahead.

-(=DAO=)-

A/N (27-08-2014):

1\. This is the first in three parts that comprise the final chapter of BQ.

2\. I know that what I'm doing here (skipping out most of the DAO journey) is cheating – and god knows I myself fucking raged when Patrick Rothfuss pulled the same shit in _The Wise Man's Fear_ with the Trial and the Shipwreck. But I do think there are good in-story reasons – namely, the Grand Inquisitor is mainly interested in what happened at Denerim, and would rather not suffer through Amell's monologues to get to it. But if anyone's interested in the IRL explanation – I genuinely don't think I have the willpower to write the roughly 100,000 words and 6 chapters to cover everything that happens from Lothering to the Landsmeet. I'll also be starting university in October, which will likely leave me with no time for shit other than studying, eating and sleeping.

3\. To anyone still interested in the story – I promise that I will complete the story before I fuck off to university. I've written about 17k out of an expected 30k, so the full chapter will definitely be out by mid-late September. There'll also be an epilogue after that, whenever I get around to writing it, though ironically the epilogue is the only part of the story where I don't lack for inspiration.


	4. Chapter 3 - Blight-Queller II

**.  
Blight-Queller  
**_Chapter 3  
_Blight-Queller

-(=DAO=)-

The sun burned high above, merciless and unrelenting. I was on the rooftop of the palace, having managed to escape my duties, at least for a time. From here, you could see the sprawling city of Denerim laid out in front of you, in all its dirt and glory.

I found her perched at the very edge, looking out.

The witch stood alone.

Her long black hair fluttered in the breeze. In the sunlight, her pale skin seemed almost to glow. Her delicate features were so painfully beautiful, so incomprehensibly perfect.

It looked a scene out of a fairytale. The princess, beautiful beyond compare. The hero, victor of a thousand battles, come to woo her. They fall in love. Then they live happily ever after.

Once upon time, even I was seduced by that fairytale.

A phantom pain in my chest. Longing and an indescribable sadness.

For what we had. For what we lost. For what could have been, but never was.

And then the witch's spell broke.

We were no longer the princess and the hero of the beautiful, fleeting fairytale.

Now it was just Morrigan and I, the barbarian and the apostate, standing in the hot, sweltering sun.

I joined her on the edge of the roof. We sat side by side, leaning lightly on each other.

I wanted to drown in that reassuring intimacy forever.

But we had things to discuss.

I spoke, breaking the quiet.

"You know, if you had wanted to talk to me, you could have just come in. You didn't need to break the window of my office and drop this off as a message."

I held up a single black feather. The visitor I was entertaining at that time had been scared witless when a giant crow barged into the room, only to drop that single feather onto the desk. Morrigan certainly liked the theatrical. In fact, she was the one who insisted that we watch that third-rate play in Lothering. I couldn't bring myself to reject her request.

She glanced at me. Her eyes were golden, and they danced with casual amusement.

"Afraid of crows?"

"Not quite. But this particular crow wasn't housetrained. It even shat a feather on my desk!"

I waved it around to make my point. Morrigan tilted her head.

"This crow – was it pretty?"

"Heavens, no. Black as dirt, and ugly as sin."

"Was it clever?"

"Evidently not. Dumb as a doorknob, seeing as it didn't know how to use one."

"Was it affectionate, at least?"

"Perhaps. Flew through broken glass, unable to resist my charms."

Morrigan laughed. It was harsh, very much at odds with her looks. You would have expected a high, musical laugh from someone who looked like a princess out of legend. Another indication that this was no fairytale that we lived in, no matter how much we may wish otherwise.

Her laughter subsiding, she said with some measure of seriousness.

"You should get some sleep, you know. Tis trying times, and stumbling through them while exhausted is foolish."

"Sleep? Is that a kind of food?"

Her golden eyes met mine. This time, instead of amusement, it was concern and worry, in equal amounts, that swirled around.

"Has fatigue made you as stupid as Alistair? Sleep is something people need to continue staying alive, in case you've forgotten."

I rubbed my eyes, before responding, which didn't really aid the excuse I was trying to make.

"Sleep is for the weak. The Hero of Ishal needs no sleep. Coffee makes for an excellent substitute."

Morrigan's eyes flashed – with real anger, this time. She snorted derisively, and gave a scornful laugh.

"Save it, Amell. You might overawe and fool those Chantry halfwits with boasts and lies, but you're an even greater fool if you believe them yourself. There is nothing in the world half as dangerous, or half as stupid, as believing the lies that you yourself tell. If you start believing in your own so-called legend, you will die in a ditch. So spare me."

I sighed. That was our relationship in a nutshell. Affection expressed with banter; concern gracelessly conveyed, and even less gracefully accepted; anger inevitably erupting in heated arguments. Morrigan wasn't sociable – and I, in some ways, even less so. The two genius magi, with all the combined emotional maturity of a prepubescent teenager.

I tried to change the topic of conversation.

"Is my lack of sleep all that you wanted to talk about? Don't worry – I'll get some tonight, after I've settled everything that needs settling. But what will make me sleep better is if we get a clearer idea of where the horde is.

"The scouts have stopped sending in their daily reports, and though that may be simple tardiness on their part, it could also be something more. I'm concerned that it could be the darkspawn killing them off, which will leave us blind as to their movements. I didn't think too much of it this morning, but I'm starting to worry incessantly about it.

"I need you to head south, and scout out what you can, alright? Make sure that the horde isn't doing anything it shouldn't be. Look for clues as to where the Archdemon might be."

For a long while, Morrigan was silent. We sat there, still leaning against each other, but where once there was warm intimacy, there was now a frigid prickliness.

At last, she spoke. She took my face in her hands, and fixed her golden eyes to mine. Her voice was clear.

"Listen very carefully to me, my friend. Tis deadly serious. Your judgement has not been what it once was. You have not been the same since the Anvil of the Void. After we came out of the Deep Roads, you made countless mistakes that you would not have made before. With the amount of preparation we put into the Landsmeet – with all the threats and manipulations and bribes we used to secure the support of the nobles – with the Queen herself ready to denounce her own father – the censure of Loghain and the elevation of that fool Alistair to the throne would have been a formality! But in an incomprehensible fit of pride and bad judgement, you accepted Loghain's desperate challenge for a duel. Why? _Why?_"

Morrigan's pale fingers sliced the air, as she expressed her frustration.

"What was supposed to be the easy work of five minutes turned into this massive crisis that you are now stumbling through like a blind man. I was there, you know. Outside the office, listening in. Threatening the Templars? The Old Gods know that I despise those Chantry sheep, but even sheep will bite back if you whip them too hard. Why did you think I interrupted you by barging in during your meeting with the Revered Mother, hmm? The one that the Grand Cleric sent back to broker an agreement? Twas turning into a catastrophe – and all because you couldn't avoid being an antagonistic ass for more than a minute. You have been far too reckless. You once told me that your greatest weapon was not your magic, but your mind. That you could see with perfect clarity, the bright line to take to victory. But now I cannot help but question if you are not blind instead.

Morrigan stood up. Her face had been an expressionless mask, but now it cracked.

"I am... fond you. Tis something you can depend upon, like the bedrock beneath. Times and seasons will come and go, summer and winter alike, but my feelings will not change. And I will do whatever it takes to protect you. I will build _mountains_ from the corpses of your enemies. I will see the world _burn_ before I see you hurt. But I cannot protect you from _your own bad judgement._"

That last line was delivered as a whisper.

And then she turned, and leapt into the open air. Her form twisted and shifted in a whirl of black. The crow that emerged took to the skies.

I watched her go, flying south, until I could see her no more.

-(=DAO=)-

I was in a dark mood when I entered the council room.

The great and good of Ferelden were arrayed around a long oaken table.

The large throne-like chair at the head of the table was empty.

For reasons known only to himself, the newly crowned King Alistair had chosen not to take the chair that was his by rights, and was instead sitting, arms folded, on the chair to its left. My legend is almost as much his as it is mine, considering that he has been with me every step of the way. We struggled against the Blight together, but now I didn't even merit a glance.

Opposite him sat his wife-to-be, Queen Anora. A most formidable woman and consummate ruler. For the five years that Cailan had played at being king, it was actually Anora who was steering the ship of state.

Beside her was her father Loghain. Beloved war hero and the most reviled of traitors. The man who brought Ferelden its independence, and then almost destroyed the country in his paranoia.

Next to Alistair, there was Arl Eamon. First amongst the nobility, brother to queens, foster father to kings. The staunchest opponent of Loghain's short-lived regency, his influence amongst the Bannorn was key to our victory at the Landsmeet.

Riordan, the Grey Warden whom we had rescued from the dungeons of the depraved Arl Howe, was sitting at the foot of the table, away from the rest. The ranking Grey Warden in Ferelden now, I suppose, given that everyone else was dead. His experience would likely be invaluable in combating the Blight, but I have had barely any chance to speak to him since his rescue, since I had spent most of the last week intimidating nobles in preparation for the Landsmeet.

And standing guard at the door was Ser Cauthrien. Captain of Maric's Shield, wielder of the Summer Sword, the farmgirl who made her legend at the age of twelve by slaughtering a bandit army with a kitchen knife, it is said that she is the greatest swordsman in all Thedas. I have no trouble believing that, considering that the one time we fought, she came closer to killing me than did the Archdemon himself.

And then there was me.

I dropped myself into the massive half-throne half-chair at the head of the table. Arl Eamon raised a single eyebrow at my shocking lack of propriety, but otherwise nothing was said.

I opened the war council.

"Friends, now that Ferelden is finally united, we can turn our undivided attention onto –"

"My apologies, but there is an even more pressing matter at hand."

Riordan's voice, interrupting me.

"I do not know if Duncan had already told you, but do you know how it is that an Archdemon is slain?"

I frowned.

"No, he didn't. The dragon is immensely powerful, but ultimately it's still mortal, is it not? Cut it into two, and it will die just as any creature of flesh and blood would."

Just by looking at Riordan's face, I could tell, even before finishing my sentence, that things were not that simple.

"Alas, that is not the case."

And so Riordan laid out the truth – about how the Archdemon's soul would, when its body was destroyed, enter the nearest vessel with the darkspawn taint. How the dragon would be reborn, making it functionally immortal. How the only solution would be for a Warden to deal the killing blow, such that the Old God's soul would enter the Warden, destroying both dragon and dragon-slayer alike.

We met Riordan's revelation with a grim silence.

This changed things, drastically. Before, I had thought of Wardens merely as highly skilled warriors dedicated to stopping the Blight; now, they would be utterly indispensible in actually putting the Archdemon down. My head throbbed painfully as my mind whirled, and I tried to understand how this truth would change the strategy I had planned out for fighting a pitched battle with the Archdemon and his horde. With the Ferelden Wardens currently numbering less than my fingers, should they have to be kept safe in the backlines, rather than leading out in front, as Duncan had done at Ostagar? When the Archdemon appears, how could the Wardens be quickly deployed to where it was? For that matter, how could a non-mage Warden even harm a flying dragon, without the extinct griffons to fly and fight upon?

"... strongest reservations about letting the Orlesians..."

I must have been lost in my own thoughts, for I only just realized that the others were conversing.

And quite a heated conversation it was.

Loghain was a wearing a deep frown.

"With the aid of the mages, dwarves and elves, a Ferelden united will be capable of resisting –"

"Are you truly so blinded by hatred, Loghain, or are you merely stupid? The horde vastly outnumbers us, and any help we can get –"

Alistair was spitting daggers right back at his mortal enemy.

This wasn't good.

"Numbers are not the issue. If you've made even a cursory study of the Wardens' military campaigns during the Blight, _as I have_, you would know that. All that matters is for us Wardens to slay the Archdemon, after which the thaw will commence and –"

"We? _We_? How quickly times change, Loghain. Only yesterday you were slandering us –

Their voices were rising, as was the throbbing pressure in my head.

"Strong words from the one who chose to desert the Wardens and his oath –"

The King stood in a rage, as Loghain crossed a line he ought not have. How quickly did tempers fray, and polite conversation degenerate into this. There was the promise of violence in the air, as hands were laid on sword hilts. Anora's eyes were wide with panic. Arl Eamon's hand was on Alistair's shoulder, in an ineffectual attempt to calm him down. Riordan was seemingly unmoved, but at the corner of my eye I could see Ser Cauthrien heft the Summer Sword.

Then someone screamed.

With a deafening crack, the great oaken table split in half. What was once as strong and solid as the stone walls themselves, was now shattered timbers. The massive piece of furniture, where kings took council, was collapsed upon itself.

It was then that I realized that my fist was clenched, and my arm outstretched. The side of my palm, which I had used to strike the table, was pulsing with pain.

My throat was hoarse. The scream was mine.

I stared at the ruined table. With a curious air of detachment, I realized that I had, in a fit of rage, destroyed the table with accidental magic. How strange that knowledge was – it felt as if it was the deed of someone else.

Everyone around the table – or shall I say, what remained of the table – had their eyes on me. Shock, disbelief, fear. But mainly shock.

Slowly, that sense of detachment I felt was being replaced by a hot mix of emotions. Embarrassment, at my bout of accidental magic, when I have _never_ before used magic other than with full conscious intent. Shame, at losing my temper. Horror, that I could lose control in such a way.

But there was nothing for it. I had no choice but to pretend that I had fully intended to do what I actually didn't. Not for the first time, I felt grateful that I had been born with a naturally inexpressive face.

I intoned, with an air of sombre dignity.

"Enough. You should all be ashamed of yourselves."

_I certainly am._

"It is utterly unseemly that you should lose your tempers like children."

_As I did._

"How are we going to defeat the Blight while quarrelling amongst ourselves?"

_The Archdemon would piss himself laughing, if dragons could piss or laugh._

I sat back, folding my fingers together. I kept my face grave and severe, and all the while I wanted to laugh at the farcical nature of it all.

Why go to all this trouble pretending, you might ask?

Because the coalition of the unwilling that I had put together to fight the Blight may as well collapse if people started thinking – with some justification – that everything was being directed by a mentally-unstable madman. It was of paramount importance that we be united in confronting the Blight, and unity depended on their trust in me and my leadership. Whatever happened, I could not afford to let myself be doubted.

And so there I was, trying to convince some of the greatest men and women in Ferelden that I had violently destroyed the table in a casual act of intimidation, rather than in an immature fit of rage.

It was absurd. Totally and unqualifiedly so.

And yet they believed me. As I looked around at their faces, I could see that they had swallowed the lie I constructed.

For the second time that day, the weight of my reputation carried me through another difficult situation that I had caused.

Reputation's a funny thing, isn't it? After some time, people stop judging your reputation by your actions. Instead, they judge your actions by your reputation. If a man is known for his competence, then people become willing to excuse his failures as unfortunate accidents. If a man somehow obtains a reputation for honesty, then he is always given the benefit of the doubt, and the untruths he tell are treated not as lies but as sincere mistakes. Or if a man is known for his ruthless and deliberate cunning, then everything he does become interpreted through these tinted lenses – and all his actions, no matter how accidental, become thought of as purposive; all his words, no matter how casual, become thought of as clever innuendo; his mistakes, no matter how stupid, become thought of as cunning double-bluffs.

In this case, all the witnesses to my outburst were blinded by my legend and the stories told about me. They didn't believe that a man such as myself could do something as silly as throw a tantrum. And so they failed to understand the truth that their own eyes saw.

Except Alistair. He knew me long and well enough to know the truth of what just happened.

He didn't say anything, though, occupied as he was with scowling at Loghain.

The meeting continued, as if nothing had happened.

We spoke of war and peace, history and hearsay, strategy and tactics. But throughout, doubt niggled at me. If the others couldn't even see the truth when it exploded in their faces, then what else were we not seeing? What else were we blind towards? Was there some terrible secret about the Blight that was eluding us, and whose truth would mean our destruction?

-(=DAO=)-

After an interminable amount of time, the council finally concluded.

To clear my head, I went out into the palace gardens for a walk.

They were huge, as gardens went. It would have been beautiful, I suppose, had it not been the dead of winter. The winter solstice, in fact. I had forgotten, being so busy with court intrigues. But it was six months to the day I had first entered the Fade. And just as I had chosen the summer solstice as the date of my adventure into the Fade, because that was when material reality and the dream realm were closest together, and magic the strongest, the winter solstice was the day when the two worlds were furthest apart, and magic the weakest.

Your magic was still there, of course, but noticeably less powerful. Not massively so, but still. If there was a worst day for a mage such as myself to engage in a fight, this was it. The main danger was overestimating the potency of your spells, and with fights being won or lost on such fine margins, such misjudgements could prove fatal. Now that I thought about it, I wasn't sure if I could actually have made good my threat against Knight-Commander Tavish.

Perhaps Morrigan was right. Perhaps my judgement had gone to shit.

But I wasn't here to doubt myself.

I walked. My head gratifyingly emptied of all considerations of politics and war, I just enjoyed the cold air and the company of nature.

I found Leliana sitting at a stone bench under a giant evergreen.

She was looking out at a small ornamental pond. Tearing bits out of a loaf of bread, she was tossing them to the ducks in the water. I watched as a big duck shoved a small one aside, to gobble up a particularly large piece.

As was the way of the world, the strong took what they could, and the weak suffered what they must.

Ha. I really should have been getting some sleep, if I was delirious enough to start seeing universal truths in the feeding of ducks.

I joined Leliana on the cold stone bench.

We sat in comfortable silence, her feeding the ducks, me watching her.

But of course, there was business to conduct.

"So what's the news on the streets?"

I asked my question after making a cursory check that there was no one about to eavesdrop. You could never be too careful with these things.

Leliana flicked the last of the bread crumbs into the mass of ducks, and then turned to face me.

She gave a half-smile, and then spoke, in that exotic Orlesian accent of hers.

"Not good. There is still great discontent amongst the devout followers of the Maker. The rumours that the Templars were threatened have been... fanning the flames even higher."

In the wake of the Landsmeet, we had needed a better idea of public sentiment. I sent Leliana off into Denerim, while I remained stuck in the palace. Her job was to gather information, as only an Orlesian bard could.

"But, thank the Maker, things aren't as bad as they could be. At least those loyal to Loghain haven't been making too much trouble. That public apology you put him through seemed to have helped calm things down."

Mercy had its benefits, it seemed.

"As for the nobles... it's hard to say who they really support. They sway like trees to every passing political wind. I suppose we'll have to do something about them eventually."

Indeed we would. I sighed. On top of every other crisis, we would have to bring the nobility to heel.

We lapsed back into silent duck-watching.

The minutes stretched on.

"Do you ever wonder..."

I started – not at Leliana's voice, but the tone of it. Where it was calm and somewhat humourous before, it was now soft and vulnerable.

This was going to one of _those_ kind of conversations.

"Wonder what?"

"Whether it's all worth it?"

As questions went, this was incredibly vague. But still I knew what Leliana referred to. After all, I used to ask myself that almost all the time.

I clasped my hands together as I considered my reply.

"I do."

"And?"

"And I remind myself that, yes, it was all worth it. Necessary. For the greater good."

At that last part, Leliana's lips curved up.

"And you feel no doubt at all? No regrets? No pangs of conscience?"

"Somewhat. But it's easy enough to ignore them. The withered remnants of my conscience I left in the deep roads, when I agreed to let Branka keep that thrice-damned soul-enslaving Anvil."

Leliana laughed. Not real laughter, mind you, but the sad and self-derisive sort.

"Do you remember? How we used to argue all the time about the existence of the Maker, and whether He exists? Alistair would always look so terribly confused."

Ah yes. Good times.

"Back then, my faith was so certain. So firm. Unshakeable. Now... it's hard to believe any more."

Her voiced dropped, becoming almost inaudible.

"In our travels, we've seen so much. And everywhere, evil. Such evil we've done, my friend – things that even I during my time as an amoral bard, would never have dreamt of doing.

"Why would the Maker allow such things? Why? I used to think that it was because He wanted us to be free, to make our own way in life, to choose for ourselves whether to accept his Grace or not.

"Now... I don't think I believe that anymore. It was easy to convince myself of these sweet ideas when I didn't have to stare evil in the face everyday, and do evil myself. And now... I'm back to where I was after Marjolaine. Lost and wandering and empty inside."

Her next words were barely perceptible, and I could hardly even see her lips move.

"Some days, like today, I don't even think that life is worth living. What purpose is there to it at all? Happiness, success, love... how can they matter, when we all die in the end? We're specks of dust in the vastness of the world. Easily forgotten footnotes to history. We're... bags of meat. What's the point of anything?"

In a way, it was a question being asked; but mainly it was just the cry of soundless despair being whispered into the endless void.

I tried to speak, but couldn't say anything. I didn't know what there was to say. Feebly, I muttered,

"I'm sorry. I have to get back to the palace. Things to do."

So I stood up. Leliana didn't move to stop me.

Instead of comforting my friend like I should, I fled, leaving Leliana to her thoughts and to her despair.

-(=DAO=)-

I was back in my office. Trapped in it, like a demon in hell.

At least I had good company.

Sergeant Kylon sat across me. A good man, and an extremely capable soldier, charged with the thankless task of keeping law and order in the city. My companions and I had helped him sort out a few problems in the past, and I considered him a friend.

I smiled at him. A real smile, the first one I could remember putting on that day.

I pushed the piece of paper across the table towards him.

"A commission. Signed by the King himself. For your immediate elevation to the position of Captain of the City Guard."

Sergeant Kylon looked astonished. Captain Kylon, I should say, given his promotion. When he finally found his tongue, he said,

"This is a great honour."

"But not undeserved."

With painful hesitance, Kylon reached out to touch his commissioning document.

"This is... everything I've ever wanted, but I never thought... I had been passed over many times. The nobility doesn't think much of having a commoner in charge of the City Guard."

"Too bad for them. Those inbred cousin-fucking incompetents don't run this city. I do."

We shared a laugh. Making jokes at the nobility, especially the useless ones often foisted onto Kylon and the City Watch, was a pastime of ours.

"I will repay this trust put in me. I'll keep the peace to the best of my abilities."

"That is good to hear."

And then, by unspoken agreement, we put pleasantries aside, and moved on to our real business.

"We're tripling the size of the City Guard. As it is, we have the law, and magistrates to interpret it, but no one to actually enforce it. Now, you'll finally have the men you need to institute actual rule of law in the city.

"Denerim has been especially volatile and lawless in recently. And you know better than I do, that Denerim has never exactly been a safe place. Murders and muggings and rape. You can barely walk down side alleys in broad daylight without getting attacked. We'll change that. We'll clear the back alleys. We'll make Denerim so safe a woman can walk naked from one end of the city to the other without being brutally attacked.

"And of course, I'll see to it that you get the gold you need to pay and equip and train this larger force of men."

Kylon frowned, and rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

"That would be most welcome. There are a lot of things that we can do to make the city safer, but all those things need warm bodies to hold swords. Increased patrols, especially in the more dangerous parts of town. Heavily-armed squads that can be deployed at a moment's notice to quell any violence before they turn into riots. More time spent investigating reported crimes."

"Excellent suggestions. I'll leave it up to you, then."

Kylon knew his job. And I knew mine, well enough to know that we would all be better off if I just trusted Kylon to do his.

The newly-commissioned Captain headed out of the office, leaving me a somewhat better mood. I now had the faint hope that all my remaining meetings would go as well and as smoothly as the one with Kylon just did.

They didn't, of course.

The next man to be shown into my office was Lord Justice Lovett.

Impossibly tall, with a hooked nose and a long white beard, he carried himself with all the elegance and nobility befitting a king. The lines on his face and his obvious age only added to the impression that this here was a man of great wisdom and dignity. Indeed, he looked more the part of an all-knowing archmage than I did.

I greeted him.

"Lord Justice Lovett. Apologies for not being able to speak to you earlier in the day, but there were other demands on my time."

_Like threatening old woman and breaking furniture._

The Lord Justice bowed, rigid and formal.

As he lowered himself stiffly into a chair, I considered him.

Here, at least, was a man whose support I could depend upon. He was competent, of course, as he would have to be, for Anora to have trusted him with the position he had. But more importantly, he was loyal – to Loghain, to Anora, and to their political faction.

Does it sound strange, that I was planning to depend upon the support of a man who was well known for his loyalty to my erstwhile enemies?

Let me clarify.

Broadly speaking, the court of Ferelden is divided into two factions. There is the populist faction, headed by Loghain and Anora. They are interested in furthering the interests of the common people. They represent the farmers, the workers, and the masses in general. And arrayed against the populists is the conservative faction, led by Arl Eamon, and – before his death at the hands of Arl Howe – Teyrn Bryce Cousland. They bitterly oppose any expansion of rights for the common people, and jealously guard the privileges of the nobility. They represent, not the people, but themselves.

For years, the populist faction had been on the rise. With Cailan's ascension to the throne, and the king turning out not to be interested in the actual process of government, it had fallen to Anora to rule the kingdom. And so she did – carrying out many reforms in favour of the common man. Despite her lofty position as Queen of Ferelden, and daughter and heir to the Teyrn of Gwaren, she had never forgotten her common roots, and always had the interests of the people in mind. Her father, too, born a yeoman farmer, was never anything but a champion of the people. And so the winds of progress blew, with the people of Ferelden benefiting immensely.

The conservatives didn't like this. Not one bit. The nerve those peasants had! What right had they to make demands of their betters? And Loghain! Why, the man was no more than an upjumped pig farmer raised far beyond his station by his chance friendship with Maric. And Anora! A peasant's daughter, to become the mother of kings? Inconceivable! And so on and so forth. The conservatives thought little of Loghain and Anora, and even less of the changes that they wrought on behalf of the common man. Bryce Cousland, in particular, was ever a determined foe of evils such as universal enfranchisement and new regulations upon serfdom. The conservatives hated all the reforms that Anora brought forth, and when Cailan died, they jumped at the chance to overthrow Loghain. It wasn't just outrage over what happened at Ostagar – they also saw the chance to bring back the ancient regime, and restore the powers of the aristocracy in Ferelden.

And so we rode that wave of highborn discontent – and it carried Alistair all the way to the throne. We took advantage of the nobility's anger at Loghain and Anora, and put forth Maric's bastard as our claimant. Some nobles might sneer at Alistair's parentage, but still he was seen as the lesser evil. Bastard though he may be, he still had noble blood. He was Theirin, the last of Calenhad's bloodline. I've never understood how mere birth could make you fit for ruling a kingdom, but there it was. It mattered to the nobles, and we used that to gain their support and to carry the day at the Landsmeet.

But now that Alistair was on the throne, and all power residing with him and Anora, we weren't really interested in pandering to those conservative nobles. Why would we? Their ideals weren't our ideals. I for one didn't subscribe to their snobbery and elitism and disdain for the lowborn. How strange, that men and women whose only achievement was crawling out of the correct vagina, had such breathtaking arrogance and delusions of their own superiority. Anora and I had spent long and sleepless nights before the Landsmeet discussing many things. Political theory; the nature of kingship; and the Ferelden we would make anew after the Blight was ended. We agreed on many things, disagreed on others, but were utterly united on the essential point that government is to be for the people, and not the other way around.

And so here we were. The Lord Justice sat opposite me, his back erect and his face impassive.

With my left hand, I reached out to my side and picked up the cylindrical scroll container that was propped up by my desk. Pulling the cap out with a pop, I reached into it and slid out the rolled parchment kept within. I held it out to the Lord Justice.

He took the scroll, unfurled it, and began reading. His eyes grew progressively wider as he read. He seemed almost breathless when he finished, as if he had just run the Tevinter marathon, rather than read a scroll in bad light. He cleared his throat, and said with some hoarseness,

"This is..."

"A charter of rights. Guaranteeing to every citizen of Ferelden the freedoms laid out therein. Rights to the free practice of religion, of speech, of peaceful assembly, of petition, and many more beside. But above all, the right to elect aldermen to local councils whose approval the banns must seek when important matters such as taxation are concerned.

_After all, it's important that the peasants give their consent to being oppressed._

"At last, Ferelden will live up to our lofty rhetoric about freedom. People will no longer be thrown into prison for no crime but that of thought and speech. Poor farmers will not be condemned to unending servile bondage just because of bad luck and crushing taxes. Arl Eamon gave such a fine speech yesterday at the Landsmeet, about how Ferelden is the land of the free, with an ancient and proud tradition of liberty. This grand charter is the culmination of those ideals."

_Ha. That reactionary hypocrite is the landowner with the largest number serfs in bondage throughout the whole of Ferelden. _

"It would be best if we moved fast, so you would be wise to hire as many criers as possible, and send them into the bannorn to spread the news."

_Yes, yes, let freedom ring throughout the land. And won't the peasants love King Alistair for it! Nothing helps consolidate a king's rule better than the support of the masses. Perhaps it'll even make the Banns think twice before giving us any trouble._

For a man who had finally achieved what he had worked his whole life for, Lord Justice Lovett didn't look much the happier. A frown marring his wizened and stately face, he said,

"Surely you jest, Warden. The bannorn will never swallow this. I have fought long and hard against my peers in the nobility, for greater freedoms and rights for the lowborn. But even I am not so naive as to believe that _this_ will work. The bannorn will not bow before you and let their power be curtailed just because you write high-minded words on a piece of paper."

_Please. If I tell them to, the bannorn will swallow their own piss. _

I said as much to the Lord Justice, though in vastly more polite terms.

"My good Lord Justice, I think you underestimate the amount of influence we exert over the bannorn."

I pulled reached over to my right, and pulled out from under a towering stack of documents, a thick sheaf of paper.

I dropped them onto the desk. Rifling through them, I read out bits and pieces.

"Bann Eiden of Brackish Bay. He supported us at the Landsmeet. Actually, it doesn't say here why he agreed... oh, I think I remember. He's the cowardly one whom I threatened to disembowel if he didn't do as we told him to."

_Pissed in his pants, actually._

"And here we have Bann Ade of Green Ridge –"

I passed some of the documents to the Lord Justice. His eyebrows rose as he read through all the salacious details of the Bann's sexual escapades.

"– who agreed to support us in return for our silence and discretion in these matters."

_Sex with prostitutes. With little boys. With animals, even. In Ferelden it's common enough to joke about the strange sexual fetishes of the nobles, but even in my most fantastical dreams I wouldn't think that a man could enjoy having a cow shit on him._

"We also have Bann Euls, who was so deeply in debt that he was almost hysterically happy when we offered to void them in return for his vote.

"So you see, Lord Justice, we will have enough support amongst the bannorn to make this work. Between the Queen's faction, and our friends –"

Here I patted the stack of incriminating documents.

"– we will have enough support to push this through."

The Lord Justice's lip was a thin line of disapproval.

"You are talking of bribery. Blackmail. Naked threats of violence."

I shrugged, and said mildly,

"The price we pay to bring about the greater good. Do you disapprove?"

The Lord Justice looked down at the table, seemingly struggling with his conscience, before looking up and shaking his head.

"No. It is distasteful. But we will do what must be done."

_A man after my own heart!_

"Excellent. Then I take it you will get the charter officially announced and promulgated?"

The Lord Justice shook his head.

"The banns are but one problem. There are many others. For instance, the magistrates, both the ones sitting in cities and towns, as well as the ones travelling circuit through the bannorn. It is upon them that we will rely to enforce these rights. It is they who will have to restrain the banns from any abuse of power.

"And yet these magistrates are all, to the man, drawn from the nobility! They utterly despise the idea of rights and freedoms for the common people! Even if we make this charter the law of the land, it _cannot_ make a difference to the common man if the courts refuse to enforce them, and they _won't_, because this entire proposal is predicated upon the _nobility. crippling. themselves_!"

The Lord Justice made his point most emphatically, stabbing his fingers into the table.

Good points, all. Anora herself raised them, during those long discussions we had.

Brilliant woman, Anora.

And together, we came up with an elegant, if radical solution, to the problem of obstructionist judges.

I reached out again to my leaning tower of documents, and extracted a single piece of paper.

Handing it to the Lord Justice, I said,

"This is a list. Of all the recent graduates of the University of Orlais. Graduates from the fields of law. Of philosophy. Of history. Intelligent men all, by every account, and of liberal sentiments. But unable to find work, except in relatively menial fields like scrivening, because of their own lowborn status and because of the recent political climate of distrust against all things Orlais."

The Lord Justice looked pensive. He could see where this was going.

"We can replace the current crop of judges with these men, who will be vastly more sympathetic to our cause.

"It will take time, of course. We can ease these men in through several rounds of appointments, and then when we've packed the courts with these liberals, we can institute lifetime tenure. By the time the conservatives have woken up to this, it will be far too late for them to do anything."

The Lord Justice nodded slowly. He mused,

"Teyrn Loghain would never have stood for this, but then he was never the fairest-minded man when it came to Orlais."

_Quite an understatement. Loghain wouldn't piss on an Orlesian even if he were on fire._

"Right. Is that it, as problems go?"

The Lord Justice laughed.

"Not quite. There's still the more fundamental problem of whether the creation of these local councils will actually do the average farmer or worker any good. In all likelihood, these elections, if not ruined outright by fraud, will be bought by local merchants."

_Not unlike how I bought the Landsmeet result, come to think it._

It was a fair concern. Annoying, that I hadn't thought of it.

I ran my hand through my head, frowning, as I tried to think of a solution.

"Perhaps... closed ballots? It's sometimes been used by the Circle of Magi in the election of the Grand Enchanter, I think. Instead of everyone voting openly, say by a show of hands, scraps of parchment with candidates' names are handed out, and electors will simply make a mark against their choice, and then put their votes into a box. And if no one can tell who you're supporting, there'll be no point to bribery. Would there?"

I trailed off.

The Lord Justice didn't look terribly convinced by my answer.

"Perhaps that will prevent the inevitable corruption. Perhaps not. But I suppose, corruption or no, giving the people a voice in their own government is worthwhile."

We sorted out some remaining administrative trivialities, and then I had my assistant show the Lord Justice out.

I rubbed my eyes. My exhaustion really was wearing me down. I decided that the next appointment would be the last for the day. It was the only one left that was of any real importance, anyway. The rest could wait for tomorrow.

My next, and last visitor, was brought in. And where the Lord Justice was old and worldly, the man before me was young and rather callow looking. I could hardly believe that he was the Lord Chancellor.

"Lord Chancellor Hosburne. It is late, so I will keep this meeting brief."

Even then something about the man bothered me. The nervous way he twitched. The incessant blinking, perhaps.

"The Queen and I discussed this at length, and because she is busy planning her upcoming nuptials, she has delegated me to give you these instructions. With the current economic recession and so many people out of work, the Crown has to act. We – that is to say, you – will be releasing the funds needed to finance public works, which will put men back into employment, and in turn further stimulate moribund public demand. More importantly, you will declare a temporary elimination of taxes on all basic foodstuff, including the tarrifs on grain imports at Amaranthine and all our other ports. You will also instruct the Treasury to reduce the discount rate on the loans we are making to the banks, and lean on them to in turn reduce the interest rates on their own loans to the merchants.

"With any luck, this should be sufficient to bring the unemployment levels down, and to get grain imported into the country."

I left it unspoken that if we didn't manage the latter, the ensuing food riots would crush this government, and with it, any hope of stopping the Blight.

"As for the gold you'll need to..."

I stopped. I felt a sinking sensation in my gut as I slowly realized what exactly it was about this man that bothered me.

"You have no idea what I'm talking about, do you?"

The short pause that followed, before the man blurted out reassurances of his understanding, told me all that I needed to.

I could feel my headache getting worse.

"Then, my Lord, perhaps you'll be so kind as to tell me why an accounting identity holds between spending in the economy and the level of income?"

The silence was deafening.

"Or the difference between the price of a bond and its discount rate?"

I wanted to stab myself in the face.

"Perhaps, at least, you know the effects of eliminating the Amaranthine import tariffs on grain?"

That last question was one asked in desperation. So most appropriately, the young and callow Lord Chancellor made an equally desperate stab at answering it. Hesitantly, and in a way that screamed uncertainty, he murmured,

"It reduces the Crown's receipt of taxes?"

Maker help me. If I were a religious man, I would go so far to say that I was being punished for my sins. As the saying goes: _When He wants to punish us, He sends us clever enemies, and stupid friends_.

My head throbbed. Here I was, looking forward to dinner and a good night's sleep, and the last meeting of the day might as well turn out to be the most trying one.

How on earth was this incompetent in charge of His Majesty's Chancellery? The extent of this man's experience with finance probably started and ended with buying expensive clothes. He was, at least, dressed impeccably in the richest of garments.

I frowned, trying to think of any possible reason why such an obviously useless man had been trusted with shepherding the country's economy through these dark and troubled times.

I recalled us making a deal with Bann Hosburne of Balemont, but not much more than that. Anora had handled the finer details of that particular bit of chicanery. But if the man before me was any indication, the deal had involved elevating Bann Hosburne's useless son and heir to the lofty and powerful position of Lord Chancellor. Perhaps Anora had been expecting to handle much of the governing anyway. Perhaps she was confident that this fool couldn't do much damage if she was there to hold his hand. But the Queen was busy, so it fell to me to be the wet nurse.

In an ideal world, I would throw this man off Fort Drakon and replace him with someone of actual competence. But of course the world was no more an ideal than it was a fairytale. I couldn't just replace the Lord Chancellor a day after his appointment. Replaced after a month, it might look as if he was an incompetent. Replaced after a day, and it would be the King looking a clueless fool for appointing him in the first place. Besides, we couldn't risk antagonizing Bann Hosburne at such a delicate time.

Which left me wielding a butter knife when I needed a sword.

Ah well. We made do with the tools we had. Even the dullest knife can be honed and sharpened.

I flung out one hand towards the bookshelf on my right. Twitching my fingers, I made a massive tome fly off the shelf, and into my open palm.

I slammed Kaynz's _Principles of Commerce_ down onto the table, and flipped it open.

I turned the book around, and stabbed down at a particular diagram.

"This is a model of..."

Inwardly, I sighed. It was a long day, with still no end in sight.

-(=DAO=)-

The darkness of the night sky was swallowing the light of the setting sun. I stepped out onto the balcony, and the cold night wind chilled me. Below, the gardens of the palace were near invisible, with the moon being hidden behind clouds.

Loghain was there, looking out into the darkness. There was an terrible, poetic irony to it all. Early this morning, Alistair had been standing in the very same spot that Loghain now occupied. The one my friend, the other my enemy. The former had left my party, enraged at me sparing the latter, and his replacement was the very man he loathed.

All this was lost on Loghain, but it gnawed at me as I stood beside the man.

Loghain turned toward me, and said with the air of a man weary with the world,

"I passed your test. Fate has a twisted sense of humour, it seems.

"I suppose you think I'm some sort of monster. More so since I survived your ritual: you keep striking at me, and I just refuse to die decently."

I laughed. Loghain's bluntness was refreshing after a whole day of lies and half-lies. Refreshing, but also dead wrong.

"Don't flatter yourself, Loghain. If I had wanted you dead, the insides of your face would even now be decorating the walls of the Landsmeet."

Most men would have trembled at words such as these, from a man such as me.

But Loghain was not most men. He merely snorted.

"I suppose that's true. And then why, may I ask, am I not dead? Why, as you put it so imaginatively, and I not a red stain on the Landsmeet tapestries?

"What do you want, Warden? I don't imagine you spared my life by accident, or out of the kindness of your heart. You have some plan in mind."

Of course. I looked up at the moon, emerging from behind the clouds, and considered my reply.

"I thought my reasons were quite transparent. I didn't think that killing you would end the civil war. No matter the outcome of the Landsmeet, many people, especially the lowborn soldiers, respected you personally. If I had killed you, the civil war may well have raged on, with more people flocking to the banners of those who cried out for revenge for the martyred hero. My way was better – you said some pretty words about being sorry, and then magically the civil war ended. And against that, what good would killing you have done? Justice? Please."

Loghain nodded, slowly.

"Your candor, Warden, is inspiring. Let me follow your example: You and I have been adversaries for some time, and I don't expect that to change now.

"Despite what we each wanted, we're both here now, facing the same enemy, and we can be of use to one another. However little we may enjoy that fact."

I inclined my head, in agreement.

"It doesn't matter if we don't enjoy it. I don't enjoy any of the things I do. But I do them nonetheless, because they are necessary."

Loghain looked contemplative – almost philosophical – as he considered my words.

"Then I suppose the greatest irony is that despite all our differences, we two are not so very different, after all. We're both willing to make the hard choices. To do what must be done."

He looked out in the darkness. When he spoke, his voice was level, but even so there was a slight edge to it.

"Everything I did was for Ferelden. For what I thought were in its best interests. You are young, Warden. You did not have the misfortune of living under Orlesian rule. What I saw, then... I do not know how to describe it, except by the word _evil_. Old men beaten to death by masked Orlesian lords. Children whose hands were publicly cut off for stealing some bread. Women, raped and then killed... as their families watched. Hatred doesn't come close to describing what I felt for it all. There is nothing I will not do to prevent Ferelden from falling victim to that evil again. Nothing."

His conviction was admirable. But it is not easy to forget Loghain's crimes, and I couldn't resist making a jibe.

"Even selling Alienage elves into slavery?"

The silence was chilling.

Well, here was yet another similarity to my earlier conversation with Alistair – my inability to stop being antagonistic. Poking at Loghains' wounds gained me nothing – not even amusement – and I did it anyway. Morrigan's words about bad judgement floated into my mind.

But Loghain merely sighed.

"Believe it or not, I regret that. But the past is the past, no matter how much regret weighs us down.

"And you, Warden? Is there nothing you regret?"

My answer was clear and assured.

"Yes and no. I regret that circumstances were difficult – that they made doing evil necessary to preventing greater evils. But I do not regret that I did what I did, given those circumstances – and if given the chance to do things again, my choices would remain the same."

Loghain had a strange look on his face. Slowly, it dawned on me that he was impressed.

"You are strong, Warden. Stronger than me. Who knows; perhaps you'll be strong enough to end even the Blight itself."

We watched the moon in the sky. What a strange world we live in. My most bitter enemy stood by me like an old friend, and it felt nothing but comfortable.

-(=DAO=)-

A/N (31-08-2014):

4\. Second of three parts. Third and final part will be out by mid-late September.


	5. Chapter 3 - Blight-Queller III

**.  
Blight-Queller  
**_Chapter 3  
_Blight-Queller

-(=DAO=)-

I poured myself another tumbler of Orlesian cream whiskey.

I don't really like alcohol, but I made the exception for this particular brand of poison. The taste is fantastic – like an alcoholic cow ejaculating into your mouth.

Loghain and I were relaxing in the small solar that led out to the grand balcony. As we drank, we spoke of everything and nothing. About the war, about history, about our lives.

It was... agreeable. Even my cynical heart marvelled at the small miracle of old enemies commiserating with each other.

I sipped at my drink, while telling a joke about how I killed some Antivan crows who had waylaid me and my companions.

The fact that it was Loghain who had sent them didn't at all detract from the joke – if anything, it made it even funnier.

And then my joke, along with the comfortable atmosphere, was shattered by the entrance of an actual crow.

With the flutter of dark wings, Morrigan's crow morph swooped into the room through the open balcony, before materializing into the witch herself.

She looked haggard. Prolonged transformation took its toll, especially after sustained activity as tiring as flying.

She didn't stop to catch her breath.

"The horde is here."

It took my tired mind some moments to process her words. But when I comprehended them, it was as if a sword within me was drawn. It cut away the fatigue and laziness, and left me sharp and hard and cold. I asked for clarification, my words biting,

"Explain."

She took a deep breath, and launched into her explanation.

"I flew south, as you asked. I scouted out the blightlands, as you asked. And as you asked, I tracked down the Horde."

She pinned me with a look.

"And the horde, a million strong, is here. Less than an hour from Denerim."

"That's impossible."

My denial was as swift and certain as the logic that underlay it.

"It is _at_ _least_ a week's march from the Korcari wilds to Denerim. Any significant group of darkspawn, let alone the whole horde, would have been seen and reported ages ago, if not by our agents then by the refugees fleeing in terror. How can the darkspawn horde, let alone one a million strong, appear so suddenly and unannounced?"

My reasoning was impeccable, but Morrigan merely shook her head.

"_Haste_. A mass _Haste_ spell, cast by the horde's emissaries. At the speed they were going... they would have covered in a day what would ordinarily have required a week. And at such speeds, no messenger would have been able to outrun them, to warn us of their coming. So now the horde, biggest in recorded history, is here, and we are woefully unprepared."

Morrigan's answer only created more questions.

"_Haste_? At such speeds? For a million darkspawn? Maintained for the better part of a day? That itself is as close to being impossible as anything can be."

At my words, Morrigan merely snorted in derision.

"For a mage, Amell, you certainly have such little faith in the power of magic. There are a hundred darkspawn emissaries in the horde. A hundred. Working in tandem, and drawing on the power of the taint, they're well up to the task of casting a spell of that magnitude, wouldn't you say?"

I was silent. Even the continent-spanning Circle of Magi would not have been capable of fielding that many combat-capable mages. A hundred darkspawn emissaries? How could we beat a hundred? Easier to wrestle with the demons of the fade, than fight that many emissaries.

Morrigan continued.

"That's not the worst of it. Amongst the emissaries number a dozen or so Omegas. Even flying high above them in my crow morph, I could feel their hideous strength. They will prove to be most problematic."

Quite the understatement. Emissary Omegas are terrifyingly powerful mages, each the equal of a Tevinter Magister Lord. And since the Magister Lords themselves collectively make up the greater part of the Imperium's military strength, it wouldn't be an exaggeration to say that duelling a dozen Omegas would be like going to war against Tevinter itself. The sheer world-eating power of the Archdemons; the massed armies of the Chantry's Exalted Marches; the sophisticated war machines of the Qunari; all have tried and failed to destroy Minrathous, capital of the Tevinter Imperium. Their rage hammered the Undying City, and each time the Undying City shrugged them off like so much sea spray, because in each and every instance the might of the Magister Lords could not be overcome. And that was the kind of peerless power these elite emissaries wielded. Easier to fight the darkspawn horde alone and unarmed, than cut down that many Omegas.

Not to mention the Archdemon –

"And the dragon himself? Do you know where he is?"

Morrigan's eyes narrowed even further, her tension and worry palpable.

"Flying above the horde, but some way behind, because he seems to be taking his time to torch all the towns and villages that the hasted horde is leaving untouched. Given the number of settlements between Denerim and where he was when I last saw him, I would estimate that the dragon will be here in perhaps... three hours."

Left unsaid, of course, was the fact that innumerable lives would be lost to immolating dragonfire.

And when the Dragon got here? Could we hope to best one of the Seven? Could I match the power of an Old God? Truly? Easier to cut the sky in two, than commit deicide.

No. That wasn't true, was it? Of course I could best the Archdemon. It was just a matter of paying the appropriate price.

I closed my eyes, and _saw_. The bright shining line that led from here to victory. The path to take, the end of which would see the Archdemon lie dead and broken at my feet. The road, fraught and perilous, that would nonetheless end with the blight quelled.

And against that? Some small sacrifices? What was that in comparison?

Not for the first time and not for the last, I weighed the greater good and the lesser evil, and made the only choice I could.

At the edges of my consciousness I could make out Loghain asking what on earth I was doing, and Morrigan shushing him.

I opened my eyes.

I looked at my companions.

Loghain was frowning, and Morrigan looked more on edge than ever.

It was refreshing, in a way, that death had come to our doorstep. No more webs of lies and gold. No more constraining chains of politics and propriety. No. We would decide this matter as things have been decided since the Old Time – with blood and death, fire and steel, magic and might.

I gave my orders.

"Morrigan, go to the Alienage, bring the elves to the Grand Chamber in Fort Drakon, and cast a _Sleep_. The Volodos variant, if possible – for the best effect. Then I need you to head out of the city and return to tracking the Archdemon.

"Loghain, locate Leliana and tell her to rouse the City Guard, after which she should wait for me at the gates.

"Come to the Denerim City Gates yourself once you've found Leliana and passed on my orders."

Today, we went to war.

-(=DAO=)-

My head throbbed with the pressure of the _Blood Sense_. The darkness outside Denerim had faded away into insignificance, the spell giving me preternatural awareness of my surroundings. I could detect every sentient creature a mile around, their relative position to me, and their magical strength. Using the spell was much like opening your eyes after a lifetime of being blind.

The shriek, silent and deadly, leaped for my back, its daggers out and ready to skewer me.

It would have worked, too, if I did not have my magic.

But magic was the one thing I did not lack.

I half-turned, and brought my right hand up in a casual backswing.

The invisible and impossibly sharp _Telekinetic Blade _I summoned bisected the shriek, separating its head from its body.

That was the signal for the rest of the darkspawn vanguards to attack.

To my left, a hurlock broke cover from the tree he was hiding behind, and went for my head with his wicked looking sword.

I blocked his vicious attempt to split my head with a _Force Field_, his sword bouncing off the impenetrable wall I erected.

Then, taking great care not to damage his armour, I brought my right hand up and thrust a telekinetic blade into his neck. The large hurlock gurgled, and dropped.

I spun around, my left hand flicking out with another telekinetic blade to divert a genlock's attempt to impale my kidneys.

I didn't need to be careful for the genlock – it was far too small for my purposes.

My _Mind Blast_ exploded out with violent force. Heedless of the shield the darkspawn brought up in a futile attempt to defend himself, the spell smashed into him, crushing him against the ground and killing him.

I turned to face the last member of this little darkspawn group.

The ogre loomed, giant and menacing, yet impossibly silent. His footfalls were imperceptible, the ogre taking care to land on the balls of his feet rather than stomp around as his kind was wont to.

Oh? This one was truly dangerous, then. An ogre with not just strength but also subtlety and skill?

I decided to take no chances.

I brought my right hand up, as if caressing a lover's face.

The _Crushing Prison_ materialized, a dozen invisible bars, each harder than fire-forged dragonbone.

I grasped my hand into a fist, and in sympathetic tandem, the bars closed into a vice, crushing the great ogre into a fountain of blood and body parts.

The first little skirmish of the war was over.

I bent down beside the dead hurlock to inspect his armour.

Yes, it would do nicely. But still...

Only one set. Not enough for what we were about to do.

Well, this was quite the quandary.

Dimly, I was aware of Loghain hurrying from the City Gate's sally port to where I was. I didn't bother acknowledging his presence, busy as I was with thinking. The ogre didn't wear armour, and the genlock's was too small, and crushed beyond recognition anyway. The shriek? Its armour was of the correct size for me, but it didn't come with a hemlet. We didn't have the time to find and waylay another pack of darkspawn, either. What to do...

Ah. The answer came to me, insane but practical in its own morbid way.

I used a small telekinetic blade to fully cut off the dead genlock's head, and then instructed Loghain to start stripping the corpses of their armour.

I hefted the genlock's head, his blood streaming down my palms, and considered it.

With slow and deliberate micro-telekinesis, I started skinning it, and cutting the face out from the skull, all the while explaining my plan to Loghain.

I had to take extra care around the eyes and orifices, to make sure that the skin didn't tear.

In a minute, I had the flayed face of a dead darkspawn. It was strangely heavy, and annoyingly slippery with blood.

I turned to find that Loghain had, with admirable efficiency, removed the armour from the hurlock and the shriek.

He looked at me with some trepidation, and with an eyebrow raised, asked,

"Are you really going to wear that?"

"Of course. A better disguise than any armour. We don't have much choice in the matter anyway, since this bunch –"

I swept a careless hand towards the corpses around us.

"– weren't considerate enough to equip themselves with enough helmet. We only have that genlock's, which you'll wear. And I don't mind wearing this –"

I jiggled the genlock's face for emphasis, and it flapped around like a macabre parody of an Orlesian mask.

"Unless, of course, you'll rather have the face and give me the helmet."

Loghain's own face told me otherwise.

"Thought not."

He started putting on the stolen darkspawn armour, while I saw to my own disguise.

I pulled the stinking flesh mask over my own face. The darkspawn blood stung me, even with my Warden's resistance. I pulled at and adjusted the mask, mainly to ensure that the eyeholes aligned with my own ocular organs.

Well. Not bad, all things considered, if you ignored how nauseating it was.

I had a strong stomach, though. I would have to, to have done half of the things I did.

"How do I look?"

Loghain had finished putting on the genlock's armour, helmet and all. He looked the image of a menacing darkspawn.

"Like a darkspawn whose face was savaged by wolves."

"Excellent. Help me put this on."

With Loghain's aid, I slipped into the Shriek's light leather armour – taking care not to disturb my mask.

With my borrowed face, our stolen armour, and the taint in our blood confusing the darkspawn's senses, we were truly indistinguishable from actual darkspawn. Theoretically, at least.

We began our soiree into darkness. Loghain and I headed into the woods surrounding Denerim, and made for where the horde was gathering.

We walked in silence.

Soon enough, Loghain spoke, voicing his doubts about what we were about to attempt.

"Are you certain that this will work, Warden? This seems enormously risky. There is no guarantee that the darkspawn will be fooled. Nordbotten was a very long time ago. We cannot count on the taint to mislead our enemy."

I resisted the urge to scratch at my face, and considered Loghain's words.

It was a fair point.

I gave my answer, albeit in a roundabout way. There was plenty of time before we reached the horde.

"Back in the Circle Tower, there was a particular Senior Enchanter – Wynne – that I didn't like. One day I decided that it would be funny to disrupt her class – she was the tutor responsible for Introductory Healing – so I stole the key to her classroom.

"Because that particular session of Introductory Healing was supposed to have been a laboratory practical, and all our materials – like the test animals we were going to practice our healing on – were inside the classroom, the lesson couldn't be held. Wynne searched high and low for the key, and eventually we students were roped into the search as well, but of course it was nowhere to be found, being safe and sound in my pocket.

"No one knew that I was the thief, of course. The key, as well the Tower's master key to all classrooms, were kept in the tutors' common room. I went there myself often enough, and knew which drawer to pilfer them from. I put my plan into action late at night. Wynne would always work late, and would be the last to leave the room, so when she was the only tutor left, I got my friend Jowan to run in and distract Wynne. He told her a story I had cooked up – about how he suspected that an apprentice mage was at that very moment trying to set up a Glyph of Vision in the female apprentice showers. Naturally, Wynne, with her strong sense of duty and ever the busybody, couldn't let such a thing slide. She hurriedly left with Jowan to apprehend the fictitious pervert, and I snuck into the unlocked common room and liberated the keys. No one saw me – I was too clever, and too careful for that.

"The next day, it was pretty amusing to watch a frantic Wynne run about like a headless chicken. I didn't plan to let it go on forever, of course. Even I wasn't that much of a dick. I had planned to be the one to "find" the key, and then return it.

"Unfortunately... well, I was careless with my mouth. I kept complaining, loudly, about how Wynne was running us ragged trying to find a key she had lost, and how it was so pointless, given that the key was going to turn up later in the day anyway."

I laughed.

"I can still remember that moment when Wynne turned around, and fixed me with that deadly glare of hers. "_What do you mean, the key is "going to turn up later in the day," Amell?_", she snarled. All the pieces fell into place for her – my slip of the tongue, the fact that Jowan had led her away on a wild goose chase the night before; her general distrust of me – and she ordered me to turn out my pockets.

"And thus I was caught red handed with the stolen keys. I was given a month's worth of detention with Wynne. I spent the next few weeks making smelly health poultices and scrubbing out cauldrons."

I finished my story.

Loghain looked at me.

"What the hell does that have to do with the darkspawn?"

Oh, right.

"The point, Loghain, is that my plans are beautifully constructed works of art. Everything will go well, so long as no one makes a careless mistake. Like I did in regards to the stolen keys. As long as we follow the plan carefully, our mission will go smoothly."

Loghain shook his head, disbelievingly.

"That is quite possibly the most atrocious parable I have ever heard in my entire life, Warden. And I've sat through some of the Grand Cleric's sermons. I suppose it should be some comfort to me that you're a much better fighter than you are a storyteller – if that prank of yours is any indication of how your latest plan will turn out, we had better be prepared to fight our way through the horde."

"Ha."

And with that bit of brevity over, we lapsed back into silence, and continue our walk through the dark forest.

It took us the better part of half an hour to do so, but finally we reached the darkspawn camp.

How to describe it?

Loghain and I were standing upon a small hill, and from it we could look out upon the darkspawn encampment sprawling before us.

I once described the horde at Ostagar, a hundred thousand strong, as a veritable sea of torches, as uncountable and as innumerable as the stars in the night sky, with each torch marking one darkspawn.

Here...

Words failed me. The power of metaphor could not capture the sheer size of an army so massive it outnumbered the population of the city it was conquering. Poetry could not give form to the unfathomable colossality of a horde of a million darkspawn.

Let us just say that the torches stretched from one horizon to the next.

Yes. Let us just say that.

Perhaps that gives the truest sense of the scale of the evil we had to fight.

It would have been easy for anyone to give in to despair, there and then. But too much was riding on us, and the success of our mission.

We headed down the hill, and into the darkspawn camp.

There were no guards. Of course there were no guards. Who on earth would even think of infiltrating a darkspawn camp? No one sane, that's for sure.

So we two of questionable sanity, made our way through the camp. Our disguises made us look like darkspawn, but it was the taint that really fooled the darkspawn around us into thinking that we were truly one of them. I had never been so appreciative of the taint, as I was then – it was essentially all that stood between us and our brutal deaths and the hands of a infinity of darkspawn.

My _Blood Sense_ was still active, despite the pounding headache it was giving me, and it allowed me to locate the emissaries. Compared to normal darkspawn, which _Blood Sense_ registered as pinpricks of starlight within my mental landscape, the emissaries stood out, their immense magical power burning bright. They were impossible to mistake, impossible to miss.

So Loghain and I headed in their direction. And all around us, there was nothing but darkspawn.

It was unnerving. It was nothing like being around humans, or any other race. Not a single darkspawn in the camp was eating, or drinking, or sleeping, or whatever else normal things a person might be expected to do. They were all just... there. They might sharpen their swords or adjust their armour, but otherwise they just stared ahead, their eyes empty. The most disquieting thing was the fact that very few even spoke – or grunted, for that was what their speech sounded like. Perhaps that made sense. What would soulless tools that the Archdemon used for murder, have to say to each other?

It was then that I realized more fully than I ever had before, the fact that darkspawn weren't people. They were weapons. A sword that hung over the collective necks of all life in Thedas.

And to defeat this enemy, I too would have to be the perfect weapon –without conscience or hesitance.

My eyes narrowed, as I clenched my teeth.

I knew what I had to do.

We had closed in onto the emissaries' position. I could not see them directly, but I could tell quite distinctly that they were in various tents in an encampment set somewhat apart from the rest of the camp – like an island set above the ocean waves. Likely, the emissaries were resting from the casting of that thrice-damned _Haste_ spell. We would never find them in a more vulnerable position.

I whispered to Loghain,

"Move closer to those tents over there, and wait for my signal."

I made a discreet motion with my right hand, and Loghain replied with an almost imperceptible nod.

He closed the distance to the emissaries' tents, and I remained where I was, perhaps a hundred meters away, while still having a good line of sight of both Loghain and the tents.

I exhaled.

Now or never.

I activated _Spell Might_, and drew forcibly drew more power into myself from the Fade.

Then I triggered my _Mana Clash_ – seizing control of the emissaries' mana, and unleashing it as a destructive conflagration.

Blue light flared, and in that instance dozens of tents collapsed, and a hundred emissaries died, immolated from within by their own prodigious power.

One tent remained standing though – within it were the Emissary Omegas, their powers so vast that even I could not hope to wrest control of their mana from them.

No matter. I had never expected to be able to assassinate them in such a way – I had set aside other plans for them, and they would meet their own end in good time.

Right now, I had other concerns.

Every head in camp turned towards the tents and the source of the blinding blue light.

I could feel, via the taint, the darkspawns' surprise, which was almost immediately boiling over into hostile suspicion.

Already, the darkspawn were swivelling around, looking for anything suspicious, and already, eyes were being drawn to me, my bloody face, and the awkwardly fitting armour. If I did nothing, I was going to be discovered – and if that occurred, death would be the best I could hope for.

I had a choice to make. I could see the bright clear line to the end we sought, and the sacrifice that would bring us one step closer to ending the blight. So in that split second, I chose, and as always, I chose the greater good.

So I twitched one finger, and performed a small bit of telekinesis.

As if yanked off by an invisible hand, Loghain's stolen helmet was pulled off his head, and clattered to the ground.

The uproar was tremendous.

From every darkspawn, in every direction, there came a terrifying, animalistic howl. There is nothing so bowel-loosening frightening, believe me, as that sound of a million incensed darkspawn out to kill you – and the knowledge that they will certainly succeed.

Loghain, to his credit, wasn't paralyzed by fear. He drew his sword and shield, and gave off a fearsome war cry of his own.

It was quite the sight. The Hero of Ferelden, alone and surrounded by the entire darkspawn horde, yet still willing to fight to the death. His courage was almost inspirational.

But futile.

As I stepped back, away from the epicentre of the coming melee, the darkspawn surged around me, heading in the opposite direction, towards Loghain himself. They utterly ignored me, for they had eyes only for Loghain – the hated enemy, in the very centre of their camp? Intolerable.

The obsessive, one-track nature of the darkspawn was what made them both terrifying and easy to manipulate. I had used it against them – drawn their attention away from myself, at the cost of Loghain's life.

And in the ruckus, I slipped away. Flowing and dodging around the distracted darkspawn, I was unopposed in my attempt to escape the camp.

I could have looked back, but didn't.

-(=DAO=)-

Denerim burnt. By moonlight and starlight, in the streets and back alleys, through the long hours of the night, it burnt. Fire and shadow was consuming the city, and there was no one capable of saving it.

I twisted, brought my right fist out, and punched. The ground exploded, and stones the size of a man's head were ripped out, and sent flying towards the darkspawn rushing at me in the dark alley.

My _Stonefists_ caught the incoming darkspawn, smashing into them, and crushing heads and torsos and abdomens.

Leliana beside me, we ran.

_To the left!_

Darkspawn leapt out of a shadowy alley, weapons drawn and teeth bared.

I barely had time to turn my head, before the first one was on me, his sword slicing down to cleave my head in twain.

With a burst of concentration, and barely in time, I used the _Winter's Grasp_, freezing the darkspawn solid from the inside out. One moment, he was about to kill me, and the other, he was an immobile statue of frozen flesh.

My eyes flicked to the other darkspawn behind him, and quick succession, I did to them what I did to the first darkspawn.

As their insides were injected with the absolute cold of winter, petal-like icicles emerged from the bodies of the attacking darkspawn.

It was almost beautiful – like flowers blooming in spring.

We ran further down the alley. I did my best to use the taint to anticipate any possible ambush, but it wasn't really possible – what with the massive amount of darkspawn flooding the city, I couldn't pick out any specific information from the taint – just the overwhelming presence of the darkspawn. We would just have to be on our guard as best as possible.

To the right, another alley stretched out, with another group of darkspawn some distance down.

This, at least, would be easy.

I brought my right hand up, and sent a _Flame Blast_ down the narrow alleyway, against the compact group of darkspawn.

Reflexively, they cowered behind their shields, but to no avail. The scorching stream of fire consumed them, blackening their armour and roasting their flesh from within. Within seconds, there was nothing but charred corpses left.

It's funny, how all burnt bodies look alike, and smell alike.

But onwards we ran.

We could see the end of the alley in sight – the dim light from burning fires marking the exit.

A humongous shadow loomed.

An ogre.

It roared, its giant maw opening as it screamed its rage.

Pointless.

I slipped into a forward stance – bending my right knee to a right angle, and shifting all my weight onto it, as my left foot extended back for balance.

I thrust my right hand out, two fingers jabbing at thin air.

As I closed my eyes, the roar of thunder exploded within the narrow alleyway, and _Lightning_ blasted out from my fingertips, taking the ogre in the chest, and blowing a hole in it.

This was not a spell meant for electrocution – this was a spell meant for destruction.

As the ogre whose chest was blown out fell to the ground, Leliana slipped out from beside me, swift and sure.

As the rest of the darkspawn supporting the ogre were still blinded by the lightning, and disoriented by the accompanying thunderclap, Leliana slipped into their ranks, and dispatched them.

She tripped the first darkspawn, and its own weight pushed its neck down into Leliana's waiting dagger.

Another darkspawn, quicker on the uptake than its peers, swung its sword in a clumsy and futile attempt to stop the rogue. With almost contemptuous ease, Leliana evaded the attack, and then opened the monster's throat.

Yet another darkspawn, still disoriented from my spell – darkspawn have very good night vision, which worked against them here – had brought his shield up over his face. Leliana didn't even bother battering it aside – she made a lethal strike, sticking a dagger under the darkspawn's armpits, where its armour failed to protect it.

But at this point, the last darkspawn had fully recovered his vision, and slashed once, twice, thrice with his sword. Leliana dodged and weaved, and with an elegant manoeuvre, slipped past the darkspawn, under its guard, and then stuck a knife into its back.

I would have helped her, but I was busy myself.

Darkspawn was flooding the alley from where we ourselves had just come.

I took no chances.

I chained a series of _Winter Grasps_, each freezing the advancing darkspawn on the spot, and then raised my hands, directing _Stonefists_ from the ground against each frozen monster. Brittle as they were, the resulting impacts shattered them, scattering bits of ice and frozen body parts onto the ground.

The fight was over.

But of course, this was war, and there was always a next fight. There was hardly even the time to feel exhausted.

It had been perhaps half an hour since the darkspawn flooded Denerim.

The Emissary Omegas, performing long forgotten magic, simply obliterated the front gates and the thick stone walls around it. Our best hope had been to hold out with the advantage of our fortified position, and that hope had been crushed along with the gates.

_The Hammer of the Gods._

Used by the Tevinters themselves, thousands of years ago, to sink Arlathan, the capital of Elvhenan, in that long-ago war between man and elf.

To think that it would be used today, albeit at a far more modest scale.

One moment, the Gates and surrounding walls were there, and another, they were simply gone – smashed into the ground, as if smited by a vengeful god. Riordan, and many others, perished in that singular instance.

It was the first, and briefest taste of the Emissary Omegas' power. Even there, in a stinking back-alley, I could feel their might. Despite them being some distance outside the city, their ghastly strength was quite distinctive, quite unmistakeable. It made it clearer than ever that I could not hope to take them in a head on fight. I made sure always to keep track of where they were; we could not afford to fight them – not now. Fortunately, they were far too arrogant to bother suppressing their magical signature, as I was doing – theirs could be felt from miles away. As long as we kept our distance, they should pose no real threat to us.

Leliana and I stepped out of the alley, and found ourselves on the main boulevard, leading from the now-gone Gates, to the Market District.

Though our soldiers had put up a valiant fight, the sheer numbers of the darkspawn meant that we had been overrun.

If there was one thing that favoured us in this fight, it was that the emissaries were dead, and that the Omegas had not deigned to take to the field themselves.

Which left me and my magic unopposed, at least for the time being.

The closest darkspawn to me, I used _Petrify_ on – transmuted to stone, just as the legendary sorceress Medusa did to her enemies.

Then I swept my left hand out, and summoned the strongest _Cone of Cold_ I could.

Winds of absolute coldness howled out from my palm, and exploded outwards to cover a huge area, immediately freezing the darkspawn it caught.

The first and most important rule of combat for a mage – protect yourself first, before thinking of harming the enemy.

Maintaining the spell for as long as possible, I swung my arm around, to maximize the area covered, and to neutralize all visible darkspawn on the boulevard.

When I stopped, the entire street was frozen – just giant blocks of ice where the darkspawn once stood; icicles sticking out from various buildings; the ground itself shiny and slippery with a coat of ice.

But this was but a temporary victory.

In the distance, I could already see more darkspawn head this way.

I conjured a _Fireball_, and made it burn hot enough to melt even steel.

Then, closing my right hand into a fist, I punched out, and sent my favourite spell arcing into the sky, towards the horde of darkspawn still flooding down the boulevard, eastwards, towards us.

Even before the _Fireball_ landed, I materialized another one, and sent it flying.

And another. And another. And another.

In the distance, my fireballs exploded, consuming the darkspawn in a burning conflagration of heat and light.

How many did I kill? I don't know – an uncountable amount, perhaps, but still, it wasn't enough.

There were a million of them out there, and the deaths we were inflicting upon them bordered on the realm of the insignificant.

Still we fought.

As I dealt with the darkspawn horde approaching from the west, Leliana was fending off the darkspawn coming in from the east.

She fired off arrow after arrow, each one killing or maiming the darkspawn it hit.

One arrow caught a darkspawn in the leg, and, as if a heavy weight had suddenly pinned it down, it tumbled over itself. Another struck a darkspawn on its hip, crippling it and causing it to stumble onto the ground. Yet another hit a darkspawn in the chest, dealing a critical wound. A final arrow lodged itself in the face of a darkspawn, through its helmet's visor slit – slaying it immediately.

But the darkspawn were closing in. Leliana shot off arrows as rapidly as she could, slowing their advance. One arrow punched right through a darkspawn's armour, and it keeled over. Another arrow was sent against the opposite alleyway, where a darkspawn was hiding behind some sacks of grain – the arrow lodged itself into the sack, but did its job of suppression – forcing the darkspawn to shelter behind cover, rather than charging us. And then Leliana turned, and in the greatest feat of archery I have ever seen, fired her last arrow at one of the two darkspawn charging us with naked steel. The arrow hit one on its helmet, knocking it back, while the arrow itself was deflected into the second darkspawn's chest.

But enough was enough.

I brought my right hand up, and lightning sparked. I materialized a _Shock_, a cone of lightning that electrocuted the nearest darkspawn, before arcing away to slay groups further away, and then finally bouncing to the ogre that was emerging from an alleyway to murder it as well.

I could feel the tinge of ozone on my fingers as I released the spell.

For the time being, we had stemmed the flood of darkspawn. But once again, it was nought but temporary. Once again we were stemming a flood with our fingers. We could not do this forever. Even then I was tiring – the mana available to a mage isn't unlimited, no matter appearances to the contrary – no more than the arrows an archer had were unlimited.

So we retreated eastwards, towards the Denerim Market District. Any darkspawn we met, we slaughtered. But as we ran, something niggled at the back of my mind.

We had been fighting at the 50th street – and if memory served me right, just that very morning I had ordered extra guards to be posted there. Why –

Ah.

The warehouse. Containing barrels of oil imported from the Free Marches. I was concerned with the possibility of riots, and arson, and the catastrophic fire that might have ensued.

Well, if anything, Denerim would improved by a catastrophic fire right about now.

Once we were a significant distance away from the warehouse and where we were previously fighting, I called a halt.

I generated a _Fireball_, and judging the distance between us and the target location, I launched it westwards.

Even now I could see the darkspawn swarming around the area.

Excellent.

My _Fireball_ crashed into the warehouse, and then the sky lit up for a split-second as hundreds of barrels of oil simultaneously combusted.

Even hundreds of meters away, the explosion hurt my ears, and I could feel the heatwave as it washed over us.

The darkspawn would have it worse, of course. Any of the creatures who didn't die from the initial immolating explosion, would even now be covered in burning oil. It is an excruciating experience – so painful, it's like... being doused in burning oil. If you think that's a poor analogy, then it's because you've never been doused in burning oil yourself.

Regardless, the grease fire would even now be consuming a large part of the boulevard – making it impassable, and hopefully delaying a further darkspawn advance.

Another fight, another victory. But plenty more battles awaited us in this unending war.

It had been a brutal night. With the fall of the Gates of Denerim, darkspawn had simply swarmed into the city through the massive hole in the north-western part of the City Walls.

As part of our desperate, rear-guard action, Leliana and I had headed into the alleyways – instead of defending the main boulevard with what remained of our troops – to destroy the two bridges that forded the Drakon River near the Gates.

With the bridges destroyed, there would be no easy way for the darkspawn to cross the river from the northern part of the city to the southern part – not in great numbers, at least. The only other bridges were near the Denerim Market District – which we would secure in good time.

All the fighting that we were doing now was just to delay the inevitable – to buy as much time as we could, so as to protect Fort Drakon until the Archdemon arrived.

Things did not always go as planned, however.

When we arrived, the Denerim market district was already overrun. Ogres were wandering all over the place. Corpses littered the ground. Pools of blood were everywhere – you couldn't quite go anywhere without stepping in one.

I would have to dig deep into my well of magic for this particular fight.

At my signal, Leliana began singing – a high pitched, unignorable song. She was a bard, and her musical talents unrivalled. But in this case, all I needed was a crude distraction to draw the darkspawn's attention towards us – and into my trap.

As the darkspawn advanced on us, swords flashing and ready to disembowel us, I clapped my hands together, and called upon the earth itself to swallow my enemies.

The _Earthquake_ I summoned was vicious. The earth shook, and all around darkspawn fell to the ground, unable to maintain their balance.

Under the tremendous pressure exerted by the seismic waves I was directing into it, the ground split and buckled – giant cracks and fissures opened up, swallowing darkspawn whole.

And then, the buildings around us crumbled, in a roar of stone and wood and mortar. The alleyways, infested with darkspawn, were buried under a torrent of rubble.

Which still left the massive group of darkspawn in the market proper, armed to the teeth and ready to kill us.

Moving swiftly, and not giving the darkspawn time to pull themselves together, I evoked a _Blizzard_, freezing the darkspawn nearest to us, and sealing off the main exit from the market. A wall of ice, a meter thick and as tall as the City Walls themselves, formed in front of us – keeping the darkspawn at bay.

This bought me the time I needed as I went through the complex forms needed for the invocation of an _Inferno_.

Within the sealed-off market district, an unearthly howl arose. Fire swirled, heat pulsed, and light flared, as the firestorm I called emerged. It burnt, hotter and hotter, and everything – even stone and metal – melted in the face of its indescribable heat. The raging fire expanded, spreading from the centre of the market outwards, consuming the darkspawn at the edges of the district. I maintained the fiery tempest as long as I could, counting the seconds away – every second I maintained it for, was another darkspawn dead and burnt, incapable of harming anyone else again. But such a spell could not be maintained for any length of time, and slowly I could feel it slipping, fading. The howling, burning winds died down – leaving me panting with exertion.

But it would be foolish to assume that the battle was over. No matter how epic the magic you bring to bear against the enemy, with a foe as innumerable as the darkspawn, you could never let your guard down.

Despite my efforts, there were still many of them left in and around the area – those hidden in alleyways further back were untouched by my _Inferno_, and were now swarming towards us for an attack.

It seemed as if another spell would be needed.

I called up my remaining strength, and materialized a _Tempest_.

Lightning burst out, as a storm of electricity formed, striking all within its range. Bolts of electricity streaked out, guided by my will, and put down darkspawn after darkspawn. An ogre which emerged from a back-alley managed to howl in rage, right before a lightning strike took his head off. The _Tempest_ was not as powerful as a _Blizzard_ or an _Inferno_, but controlled and weaponized like this, it was just as deadly.

And then things went horribly, horribly wrong.

A cold wind started blowing, and, too late, I realized what was happening.

The Omegas!

Finally, they had made their move. I had been overconfident – I couldn't sense them anywhere remotely close by, and hence assumed that they would be no threat. Had I forgotten the kind of magic they were capable of, even at great distances?

All around us, the lightning I had called forth was now out of my grasp, wrestled from my control by my fearsome magical opponents. They had hijacked it, boosted it with dangerous amounts of raw mana, and shaped it into the form of a whirlwind.

In short, they had summoned a _Storm of the Century_, a raging hurricane of death-dealing thunderbolts.

But where a _Tempest_ is controlled and directed, the _Storm of the Century_ is utterly uncontrolled – or perhaps it would be better to say that it is uncontrollable – no one can really claim to be able to direct a spell of such overwhelmingly power.

It took all my prodigious skill, and all my remaining power, to deflect the lightning bolts from striking Leliana and I. We hugged each other close, as we ran for our lives. Lightning struck all around us, reducing rubble further to dust. With the freezing wind howling into our faces, we could barely keep our eyes open. My head throbbed with the sheer pressure of keeping the wrath of nature itself at bay. We ran, and ran, as all around us the world was shattered into nothingness.

-(=DAO=)-

I leant my aching back into the chair and took another sip of the lyrium potion. It helped replenished my depleted mana levels, but taking too much, too quickly, was dangerous.

Have you ever tasted lyrium before, Grand Inquisitor?

Of course you have. There is nothing quite like it, is there?

It has a different taste for everyone, and what we taste is what reminds us of what we love the most.

Me? Heh. It has changed over time, of course. The last time I had lyrium... let us just say that it was the smell of the Korcari wilds.

Leliana, sitting across from me, was drinking lyrium potion as well – and in far greater amounts than I was.

Dangerous, especially for a non-mage, but also necessary, for what came next.

"How does it taste like?"

To my question, Leliana gave a half-smile.

"Like love."

To any other question, it would have been a fatuous answer, but to this particular question, it was a pretty witty reply.

"Drink up, then."

We were resting in a small room within the Alienage – after escaping the vicious _Storm of the Century_, Leliana and I had crossed the last remaining bridge linking the north side of the city to its southern part.

The Alienage was located at the southern end of the bridge, and it was here where our remaining forces had gathered, to make a last stand against the gigantic darkspawn horde that had completely overrun the entire northern part of Denerim.

The Omegas were still keeping their distance – I could feel them within the city, but far from where we were.

Good. I was in no shape to fight one, let alone all ten of them.

And my plan to deal with them was still not primed. I needed more time.

"You have no questions about what you have to do?"

Leliana shook her head, her short red hair bouncing about.

"Good."

We lapsed into silence. This was... exhausted silence. The silence of people who have nothing to say, because they are at the point where even mustering the strength to make words tire them out.

We had been fighting for an interminable amount of time. And the end was nowhere in sight. The break we were having now was precious – and unlikely to be repeated.

I downed the last of my lyrium, and then stood up.

"Once you're done with the lyrium, you should leave immediately for the palace district."

Leliana inclined her head in acknowledgement.

There was more that I wanted to say, but couldn't. So instead –

"Good luck."

I left the ramshackle house, and headed out into the Alienage.

There were no elves left, of course. They had all been... evacuated to Fort Drakon.

The Alienage was now a military encampment. There were soldiers, and nothing but soldiers. Archers on the roofs; heavily armed warriors guarding the bridge and wooden ramparts protecting the alienage; messengers ferrying orders from point to point.

I made my way to what used to be the hospice – it had been commandeered, and turned into a war room.

The guards at the door nodded to me in deference, as I entered our makeshift commander centre.

We were a diminished lot.

There were less than half of us remaining from the war council we held that very afternoon. How strange, to think that it had occurred but hours past – subjectively, it seemed like an eternity ago. When Morrigan delivered the news of the horde at our doorstep, I had immediately sent Alistair and Anora away, on the first ship to Amarinthine. Loghain was dead, of course, as was Riordan. This left myself, Arl Eamon, and Ser Cauthrien, in command of whatever troops we had not yet lost.

Things were not going well – Cauthrien and the Arl were locked in an argument.

"... obviously be destroying the bridge –"

"– with respect, my lord, the Warden left express instructions –"

They both stopped talking as I entered.

"Warden. It good to see you well."

Eamon greeted me, and Cauthrien inclined her head to acknowledge me.

I slumped into the chair between them. I was tired – so tired. The events of the day had already run me ragged, and now the war was putting unimaginable pressure on me. Even now, my body rested, but my mind could not – there was strategy to discuss, and a war to prosecute.

"Cauthrien's right, Eamon. It would be foolish to destroy the bridge at this stage."

I dragged my fingers through my hair, as I tried to put words together, to best convey my reasons.

"The darkspawn are stupid, Eamon. Mindless. Obsessive, if that's the right word. Give them an obvious target, and they will swarm towards it, no matter how well-defended the target is, and no matter how many losses they will incur.

"By leaving the bridge be, the darkspawn will attack. Here. Nowhere else. They will charge across the bridge, and we will massacre them. It will be a meat grinder, except we'll be doing the grinding, and the darkspawn will play the role of the minced meat.

"Destroy the bridge, however, and deny them an easy and obvious target – well, then they'll start looking for something else to attack, something else to do. They can be cunning when they have to be – as we found out to our cost, at Ostagar. They might even attempt to ford the river elsewhere, and we don't have the men to defend all along the south bank of the Drakon River. This is something that we have to avoid at all costs."

Eamon didn't look completely convinced, but it wasn't his choice to make. Cauthrien, though, seemed to see the logic of my words.

I drummed the table with my fingers, perhaps betraying my anxiety.

Would the Omegas take the bait?

A soldier entered the room, interrupting my reverie and the lull in the discussion.

He handed me a piece of paper, and said, with evident trepidation,

"Sir, a darkspawn envoy passed this to us."

I frowned, and I could see my expression mirrored by the disbelief in Eamon's and Cauthrien's faces.

I questioned the soldier.

"Did the envoy say anything?"

"No sir. He didn't speak at all – just crossed the bridge holding a white flag, and left this at the southern foot of the bridge, before beating a retreat."

That at least was a relief. Only emissaries should be able to speak – if there was a speaking darkspawn about, then it would have to be an emissary I failed to kill earlier on – or worse, an Omega.

We would be in deep trouble if the Omegas were bothering to suppress their magical signatures. If I weren't able to detect them, and to keep track of where they were... the damage they would inflict upon us would be hideous. But thankfully, it seemed that they thought such a thing as hiding their power to be far beneath them. So much the worse for them, then.

I spread the piece of paper out.

It took me some time to read it, and even more time after to decipher it.

When I was done, I pushed it away and rubbed at my eyes.

Eamon tried to make sense of it himself, but evidently couldn't make heads or tails of it. Cauthrien too was frowning

"Warden, what is this?"

On the paper was a crude drawing of a pair of hands, and a few short sentences.

A boast. It was a boast.

I sighed.

"Shall we play a game?"

I extended my left hand, palms spread out, towards Cauthrien.

"Ser Cauthrien, could you do the same, and extend your own left hand?"

Despite her obvious bemusement, she complied.

Our two open palms were side by side, fingers arrayed in a row of ten. I explained,

"This is a game. The rules are simple. There are two players. The players take turns to fold the fingers on the two hands. Each turn, a player can fold one, or two, fingers, starting from the left-most finger –"

I wriggled my smallest digit.

"– and working our way rightwards. The goal is to be the one who folds the tenth and final finger – your own small finger, in this case.

"Now – the real question is, do you want to go first?"

Despite everything, there was a part of me that loved these little games, that loved revelling in my own cleverness – I was almost enjoying this.

Cauthrien's frowned deepened, as she answered.

"I... I would want to go first, wouldn't it?"

I smiled.

"Why?"

Cauthrien's voice became firmer with certainty as she answered.

"Because you can fold only up to two fingers at a time. And if the goal is to fold the tenth and final finger, then you would want to fold the seventh – so regardless of what your opponent does – whether he folds the eighth or both the eighth and ninth – you would be guaranteed to fold the tenth.

"And the same reasoning applies further back. If you want to fold the seventh, you need to fold the fourth. And if you want to fold the fourth, you have to fold the first finger.

"So whoever starts the game will win, if the player has sense enough."

My smile deepened.

Cauthrien was certainly quite formidable. She was not just a brilliant swordsman, then, but also very clever in her own right. Loghain couldn't have picked a better lieutenant.

"A very succinct analysis of the game. Shall we play, then? You can go first."

The little finger game proceeded as Cauthrien predicted.

She folded the first finger, and then I folded the next two – my ring and middle fingers. She proceeded to fold the fourth – my index finger – and then I folded both my thumb and Cauthrien's own. Then Cauthrien closed her own index finger – the seventh finger in the game, and at that point pure logic made her victory seem inevitable.

Or not.

"It seems, at this point, that it's my loss, no? I can fold either the eight, or the eight and ninth fingers. Regardless, you will be able to fold the ninth and tenth, or the tenth straight away. It would seem that your victory is assured."

But life was not so simple.

I sighed – a deep and weary sigh.

"But what if I did this –"

Very gently, and very slowly. I began folding Cauthrien's eight finger, her middle finger – but backwards.

"What if I folded your finger – the wrong way? What if I broke your index finger, and for that matter, your ring finger as well?"

And hence the moral of the story – the taunt being sent to us by the Omegas – and I was certain that it was them; who else in the horde could have been intelligent enough to come up with this convoluted, pretentious threat?

"If I broke both of your fingers, would you still have the strength to fold your last and final finger to win the game?"

I released her finger.

Eamon seemed lost at my words, but Cauthrien's eyes were thoughtful.

I sighed again – or grunted, rather – more out of exhaustion than at anything else.

"The point of this little game is to show that, ultimately, it is strength that matters. It matters not how clever you are – in the final accounting, it is might that triumphs. The only real kind of power, in the end, is the physical kind – the power of inflicting pain and injury and death.

"Our darkspawn friends are taunting us, of course. We might have the better position, having only to defend this bridge – but they have the overwhelming numbers, and no matter how we struggle, and no matter what clever strategies we come up with, they will almost certainly come out victorious in the end.

"They are boasting that things will be settled as they have been settled since the world was young – with the shedding of blood, with the song of steel, and with magic that is deadlier than any sword.

Silence met my proclamation.

Movement in the corner of my mind.

I twitched. I could sense the Omegas moving, far to the west.

It seemed as if they really had taken the bait. I had to make haste.

I stood.

"I apologize, but I have to head to the Palace District. I leave this place to your capable command, Ser Cauthrien"

If this little sessions proved anything, it was that Cauthrien was cleverer than the Arl was. And whoever held the Alienage needed to be really clever indeed – to hold off the rising darkspawn tide, for any length of time.

Arl Eamon didn't seem happy at my announcing my departure, though.

"You're leaving, Warden? Are you abandoning us to the darkspawn right at the very moment we need you the most? We _need_ your magic here to be able to fend off –"

"I'm glad that you hold my abilities in such high esteem, Eamon, but I'm not abandoning you to the darkspawn. On the contrary, I'm off to kill the Omegas. Believe me, they are the real threat. Between them they have the power to level Denerim – all those darkspawn to the north –"

I nodded in the general direction of the bridge.

"– are mere distractions, compared to those ten. Besides,"

Here I gave a smile that was only half-mocking.

"You have the greatest swordsman in all Thedas here. I'm sure Ser Cauthrien should be able to hold the bridge alone, if nothing else."

I took my leave.

The Omegas were right, you know. In an actual battle, it would be might that decided the victor. Always had it been so, and always will it be. As it is, if I fought them, I would lose – with certainty.

But why fight, when you can stab someone in the back?

-(=DAO=)-

The man ran.

His legs trembled. His breath came hard and fast. His head was dizzy.

He was exhausted. He wanted nothing more in the world than to stop.

Except there was a monster behind him. Fear pushed him on.

He ran.

And slipped.

The ground was trembling, and shaking, and grinding beneath him. It felt as if the world was coming apart around him.

He used a hand to push himself back up, and continued running.

His lungs were burning.

He slipped again.

And got up again, and continued running.

Now his knees were pulsing with pain.

But it did not matter.

What mattered was that he could still feel the monster chasing him.

A desperate gasp escaped his throat.

He slipped once more, and this time his fall twisted his ankle. Pain lanced up his leg.

He would have cried, but fear left no room for that.

For the third time he pushed himself up, and for the third time he continued running. His ankle screamed in agony at every step, but he ignored it.

The monster was closing in.

He came to a stop in front of the door to his apartment.

He slipped the key to it out of his pocket, and put it into the lock.

Or at least he tried to.

His fingers were trembling so badly that he could not even fit the key into the small hole of the lock.

The frustration of it only caused his terror to mount.

He used his left hand to grip his right, and together he managed to jam the key into the lock, and turned it.

He ripped the door open, and almost fell into the room.

But at least he managed to shut the door, and lock it. Whether it was from the last semblance of a presence of mind, or if it was from long habit – he could not say.

He half crawled, half stumbled his way to the back of the room.

A loud bang resounded throughout the small back alley apartment.

Someone was smashing at the door.

The monster was here.

His terror spiked.

Something warm on his thigh.

If he had the least shred of something resembling sanity, he would have realized that he had just pissed himself.

But he did not even realize that, for there was no space in his mind left except for raw, unadulterated, overwhelming fear.

Another loud boom.

He had trapped himself.

And with a last crash, the door was smashed open.

The silhouette of a monster filled the doorway.

The face of evil presented itself. Skin like rotted leather. A gaping maw. Bulging eyes.

The monster raised its sword.

He did not even have the strength to scream as –

–

The monster's blade arced through the neck of the Enemy.

Blood splattered the ceiling, the walls, the floor. It covered the serrated edge of its sword. It dripped.

Its hatred for the Enemy was satiated.

For all of a fraction of a second.

And then it turned, and strode out of the door, in search for more to slay.

God's will thrummed through its veins. It knew what it had to do; what must be done; what would inevitably come.

It would kill. And kill. And kill again.

Until all was death. Until the world was purged of all life. Until the curse of living was eradicated.

Until then it fought.

Out in the main street, more of the Enemy flooded north, in droves, driven forth by Their might.

Its sword flashed, and cut down the nearest one. The next one had its head taken off with an horizontal slash. The one after that was split down the middle with a heavy blow.

It roared.

Let them know terror. Let them know the futility of living. Let them welcome death.

God's voice was in its head, urging it on.

It ran, chasing after those who fled.

The Enemy was scampering away, trying to escape the inescapable.

It would show them the Truth.

It reached the closest one, the slowest runner, and hacked it down.

Without stopping, it lunged out and cut deeply into the side of another, the force of the strike causing its limp body to spin away.

Yet another had tripped over itself, and was on the ground.

That one it stabbed through the back, with a swift downward thrust.

God's power infused his spirit.

And God would not be denied.

A door across the street slammed shut.

Futile. Futile. All completely futile.

They did not understand.

So it would make them understand.

It bounded across the street.

With a kick, it shattered the door into timbers.

It entered the dwelling.

The Enemy cowered before him.

It opened the first one from groin to neck with an upwards backhanded stroke.

Its guts fell out, and blood pooled onto the floor.

Someone screamed.

Then it screamed no more, as it stuck its sword into that ugly mouth.

The last of the Enemy was the weakest of them all – mere spawn.

That one it gripped by the head. It squeezed, and the spawn's head was crushed upon itself.

It turned, to head out, and saw the glint of flashing steel –

–

The soldier withdrew his sword from the head of the hurlock.

It was too late for the poor family though. They were all dead.

He tried not to look too long or too hard at the small, headless corpse.

He had been running a message from the Alienage to Fort Drakon, and was on his way back when he ran into a tide of fleeing civilians.

And soon after the fleeing civilians came the darkspawn.

Fear gripped him. Fear gripped him so badly that it was a physical pain felt deep in his guts. Fear took hold of him and made him want to run.

But he did not.

For it was his job to defend the city, defend those who could not defend themselves.

Besides, there was nowhere to flee to.

They had thought that the river would keep the darkspawn at bay, but clearly it had failed to do so. The southern part of the city was being overrun just as its northern part had been.

All that was left was to fight. To kill the darkspawn if he could. To die fighting, if it came to it.

A darkspawn came for him.

It was fast. Much faster than he was.

He barely managed to scramble backwards as the darkspawn's sword cut through where he had been a second ago.

The next swing he caught on his shield, and the strength of the blow almost knocked him over.

But he stood his ground.

With a roar, he turned the sword aside, and stabbed out.

The darkspawn caught his thrusted blade on its own shield, but this only caused his sword to be deflected upwards and into the darkspawn's own face.

His sword cut deep, gorging out an eye and shaving off part of the darkspawn's face.

Still it snarled. Still it was alive. Truly these things were monsters.

He knew he was an average swordsman at best. He was no Ser Cauthrien. But he knew how to take an opening when it was offered.

He pushed forward, and twisting his blade he slashed across the darkspawn's head, the only unarmoured part of it.

His sword sunk deep and satisfyingly into the monster's flesh.

This time, his blow managed to fell the monster.

He stepped back, and gave a gasp of relief.

The relief did not last long, however.

Another darkspawn, much larger than the others, advanced towards him.

This one was armoured from head to toe.

Its armour was almost ornate, and lined with spikes. Its own helmet was massive, and crowned with twisting horns. Its sword was gigantic – the biggest he had even seen, bigger even than the legendary Summer Sword itself.

With speed almost unbefitting a monster of such size, the darkspawn brought its greatsword down in a blur of dull grey.

He managed to bring his shield up.

Then his shield was no longer there.

Nor was his arm, for that matter.

The darkspawn had cleaved through him, and taken his limb right off.

He could only stare blankly at the stump.

The shock of it was so great that it was only instinct that made him bring his sword up to parry the next blow.

It did not matter, though.

His other arm was taken off clean at the shoulder.

He didn't even notice, as the darkspawn swung once again, and –

–

The Alpha lowered his sword, as the Enemy before him fell into two clean pieces, his torso separated from the rest of its body.

It roared out to the rest of the darkspawn, reminding them to keep good order.

Killing was good.

But there had to be order to the killing.

It made it all the more effective, after all.

The other darkspawn, mindless fools that they were, were overcome by their bloodlust, and had wandered off on their own to chase Enemy stragglers.

Mighty as They were, even They could be ambushed and killed by the cowardly enemy.

As those last two fools proved – felled by the weakling before him.

He kicked out in hatred at the torso of the dead Enemy.

The body part was launched a short distance, and smacked into a wall.

A lung fell out.

Snorting, he turned away, and roared more orders at its underlings.

God was speaking to him, reminding him of his role to play. Set above the mindless others with a mind of his own, he was made to rule his fellow darkspawn. It was his job and purpose to guide them forward, to accomplish God's great design.

Backed by two of his fellows, he entered one of the Enemy's buildings.

Some were huddled by a bed.

They were his.

A swing of his sword cut one down.

The second one had its head split against the wall.

Upwards and onwards.

They ascended a flight a stairs, to the next level of the building.

More prey awaited.

He was indeed privileged. God himself had touched his soul, and elevated him beyond the rest.

He would repay God's favour a thousand times over, with sacrifices piled a thousand high.

Another room, another set of Enemy to be slain.

He swung his sword in an arc, and took off the head of one cleanly.

Another gave a strangled scream, before he brought his sword around in another revolution and silenced it.

He turned to the steps once again, and once again they ascended.

The next and final room at the top of the building was packed with the Enemy.

It seemed that today God had blessed him. He would have the honour of massacring the Enemy wholesale.

Cut. Bash. Thrust. Slash.

They fell.

Lacerate one. Bring sword around to open a huge gash in another. Smash the head of yet another open. Whirl around to fold another one over with a chop.

They slumped to the ground.

Turn around and behead this one with a flick. Spring around, extend, knife that one. Drive another one into the wall and slit its throat. Batter this one in the mouth with the pommel of his sword, then stick him clean through.

Bodies everywhere.

With a leftwards swipe, kill one of the two cowering on the ground. A follow-up rightwards twist ripped open the face of the other one.

The spawn they were cowering over in a futile attempt to protect it, he skewered.

Then, with a dismissive shake, it shook the Enemy spawn off his sword, and out the window.

Outside, fire roared. It seemed as if the Prophets were enjoying themselves.

The Enemy all dead, They left the building.

The street was chaotic. In his absence, order amongst his troops had broken down. He roared again, to try to –

–

The apostate panted, with lightning trailing from his fingers, as he released the spell that had destroyed the Hurlock Alpha and the two other darkspawn.

He was a coward. He knew that better than anyone else.

He regretted that. More than anything else.

If only he had been braver, cleverer, stronger, he could have saved her – the woman he loved.

But he wasn't.

He had destroyed his phylactery, with her help, and they had fled the Circle Tower together. The Templars tracked them down. He killed them, in the end, with rage and blood magic on his side, but by that time it was too late. She had died. Died, because he couldn't protect her.

And if he couldn't protect her, how could he protect these innocent people against the darkspawn?

All he was left with was regret. Regret, at least, he did not lack. Oh no – it, along with self-loathing, was something he had in excess.

His old friend used to tell him that the best life one could live was the life with no regrets.

On that count, then, he was a complete and utter failure.

His old friend – another one of his regrets.

He still remembered the last time he saw him – his dishevelled clothes, his panicked expression, his rushed words.

His friend had pressed a key, and a note scribbled with instructions into his hand.

"They will come for you, because of what I did. For what it's worth, I'm sorry. Read this, use the key, and run."

Then he had left with the bearded man in the silver armour.

He never saw his friend again.

There was so much that he had wanted to say, to do. Thank him for the help, for one. He had feared being made Tranquil, and his friend's gift and instructions had helped him escape that ghastly fate. He also wanted to apologize – for not even daring to help his friend when his friend had gotten into trouble – though he had no doubt that had it been him who had been imprisoned for the illegal use of blood magic, his friend would have killed all the Templars in the tower just to save him. But ultimately, what he wanted was to clasp his friend's hand, look him in the eyes and tell him with all earnestness how much their friendship meant to him.

He had hoped to meet his friend in this city, but as usual his hopes amounted to nothing.

He was alone, with regret his only companion.

But no more. No more.

For the first time in his life, he would do the right thing. He would not be a coward. He would not run away.

He stood in the middle of the street, in the face of the incoming tide of darkspawn.

He breathed in, and then out.

He pulled more magical power in from the Fade – this was a skill that he had struggled long and hard to achieve; he still remembered those long months and his frustrated grunts and his friend's amused snorts as he tried and failed and tried again to get this spell right.

But under his friend's persistent tutelage, he had.

He would put it to good use.

The first darkspawn he froze from the inside out.

Then he released a blast of cold wind to cover the whole street and incapacitate the onrushing darkspawn.

He could hear his friend's voice as he lectured on about proper combat procedures.

_Protect yourself first, before thinking of harming the enemy._

He transitioned to his next spell, inundating the road with roaring flames, killing the still advancing darkspawn.

Then, he formed a ball of fire – and hurled it.

His friend's favourite spell, this was – he used to say that all problems could be solved with sufficient fireballs.

The resulting explosion shook the street, and immolated whatever monsters that still stood before him.

But more came.

Maker, there were so many of them!

It seemed as if he had no choice.

His head pounded as he used blood magic to pull greater and greater amounts of magic in from the fade.

Then he reached out to the front ranks of the attacking darkspawn, and ripped at their minds, using them as conduits for further channelling of raw magic.

As his sacrifices stumbled to the ground, blood streaming from their eyes, he used his trump, his strongest spell.

The gigantic mob of darkspawn collapsed before his power, writhing about in pain.

It was a terrifyingly powerful spell indeed – but so too did it put a terrifying strain on his body and mind.

A touch to his face confirmed that he had gotten a nosebleed. Not uncommon, for blood mages –

_Pain._

_Pain._

_Pain._

He collapsed to the ground, and jerked and flailed and writhed about as pain, agonizing and complete and unrelenting, filled him.

The assault of electricity that was surging through him was moments away from killing him.

And in those last moments, his regrets bubbled up again. What he would give to see Lily again, as well as –

–

The Omega, nimbus of lightning whirling around him, glanced down at the dead Enemy mage.

Its memories flowed into him, as did the memories of the others who had recently died in the area.

Conventional magical theory would hold this to be impossible, but truly nothing was impossible with Their peerless mastery of blood magic.

It was joyous – watching the chain of death as human and darkspawn killed each other in turn.

Killer and killed. Murderer and victim. Slayer and slayed.

It filled him with an indescribable pleasure, to witness death from the first-person point of view. They never see it coming. Even when they think they're ready for the Eternal Silence, they are not – no one is.

He stood there, on the rooftop, looking down at the world of men.

They were so small, so weak, so insignificant.

Like ants.

And ants were meant to be crushed.

From the halo of electricity around him, bolts arced out, simultaneously striking down a dozen or so targets.

Too easy.

Of course it was.

God's power infused his very being. Unlike the millions of ordinary darkspawn, he and his companions alone wielded the divine power.

He was Fourth amongst the Ten – one of the greatest weapons that God had forged to cleanse the world of the Enemy.

He was a Prophet – when he spoke it was God's own inviolable commands that boomed forth.

He was Omega – envoy of the end for all life.

More lightning arced out, and again more than a dozen lives were snuffed out instantly.

He and his nine companions had finally found him.

Amell the Genocide.

They would repay him for Ostagar, many times over.

Lightning struck again, and once again a dozen lives and one were ended.

With some reluctance, he released the spell.

The First had warned them not to waste too much magic before their great battle. They had to conserve their strength for fighting the Genocide. As it was, he had probably played around too much.

But there was no need for concern. The First worried far too much.

The Genocide might have been strong, but each of the Ten was mighty indeed, second in power to only God himself. Together? They would break the world in two.

The ten of them were spread out in formation, and using magic to boost their physical abilities, they leapt from rooftop to rooftop, converging on the palace district in the distance.

The magical signature that they were closing in on was unmistakably the Genocide's. Staggeringly massive, its presence dwarfed everything else in the city save for the Omegas.

The Genocide had been suppressing his magical signature originally, which made him hard to track. They had to resort to long range harassment to flush him out.

But it seemed that he had given up on subterfuge. He was confident of fighting all ten of them at once?

Arrogant mortal.

With a final burst of magic, the ten of them cleared the final stretch.

They landed on the stone battlements, in a perfect circle, surrounding the cloaked figure standing out in the open.

The First leapt down to the ground gracefully, and walked up towards the hooded figure.

Their leader spoke, his musical voice lilting and otherworldly,

"Are you afraid to show your face, Genocide?"

The First twitched a finger, and wind howled across the palace district.

For all his talk of caution, the First certainly had a flair for the theatrical.

The dramatic wind blew the hood of the Genocide's cloak back, and red hair caught the breeze like a candle flame in the wind.

A women smiled back at the First.

Then there was darkness.

Then there was pain.

And then was nothing –

–

I trembled with the effort of the casting of the _Blood Wound_.

My limbs felt weak. My vision was blurring. My mind screamed with pain.

I had no one else to blame. Flemeth did warn me, after she saved Alistair and I at Ostagar, that my overuse of Blood Magic had left me permanently... scarred.

She had healed me as much as she could, but something in my mind had been broken, and could not be fixed.

Use Blood Magic to any significant extent again, as I had just done, and I may well die.

But it worked. My plan worked.

Get Leliana to injest copious amounts of lyrium, and simulate a powerful magical signature – fooling the Omegas and drawing them into a trap.

A trap which I closed with my _Blood Wound_.

I had reached into their minds, shut off their senses, and then proceeded to stimulate every pain receptor in their body to the most extreme extent, which triggered cardiac arrest, which of course led to certain death.

The deadliest spell in the world, and utterly impossible to defend against.

The Omegas, for all their might, were slain. I could no longer sense them. Their magical power, once so oppressively suffocating, was completely gone.

But something had gone wrong.

The spell had taken more out of me than I had expected. My old injury had flared up. The pain in my mind was unbearable, damn it.

I staggered out of the building I had been hiding in.

But more than the aggravation of my old injury – there were... foreign memories in my mind.

They were swirling around, so utterly, disgustingly alien. I wanted to claw my brains out.

Had there been a backlash? Was one of the Omegas using blood magic of its own, and when I entered his mind, did I receive a parting gift?

I groaned in pain.

And then stopped, and with sheer effort of will, forced myself to stand upright.

In front of me stood an Omega.

He had his huge arm around Leliana's neck.

And a knife pointing right into her jugular.

Impossible. Impossible. Impossible.

The Omega spoke, his voice musical yet dripping with poison,

"Stop right there."

He didn't need to speak his threat. It was plain from the knife to my friend's throat as to what was being threatened.

How on earth...

_Blood Wound_ was unstoppable, and fatal.

My spell had worked, as attested to by the fact that the corpses of the other Omegas littered the ground all around us.

And why was the Omega's magical signature gone? He hadn't bothered suppressing it before –

Ah. _Ah._

The truth dawned on me.

The moment the Omega had felt the tendrils of my power reaching into his mind, and shutting off his senses, he had reacted. With admirable ruthlessness, no less.

He must have destroyed his own connection to the Fade, severing my control and protecting himself from the second, fatal part of the spell.

Of course, this left him powerless, reduced to wielding knifes and taking hostages.

I laughed, despite the fact that laughing caused my head to hurt even more than it did.

Oh, this was farcical.

An Omega, master of magic and scourge of the living, made himself a magical cripple, and now had to resort to hostage-taking to fend off another effective cripple – me.

You must admit, it was really funny, in a macabre way.

The situation was dire, though.

I had little strength left, and the Omega, though stripped of his powers, was far stronger and bigger and faster than any human – far too strong for Leliana to fight off, at any rate.

He didn't know that I myself was barely capable of walking, though.

I could use that to my advantage.

Or not.

The last of my strength gave out, and I dropped to my knees.

A choice presented itself in that single fateful second. I could still see the path to victory, and the sacrifice that if made would bring us another step closer to ending the blight. So in that split second, I chose, and as always, I chose the greater good.

As I fell, I gathered the last of my power, and jabbed out.

Lightning lit the darkness for the last time that night.

In the stone-cobbled square, three people fell.

I lay face down on the ground.

I didn't even try to look at the other two bodies.

I knew what I had done.

I lay there, unmoving and empty.

Was this the end?

Somehow it didn't bother me that much.

I had failed to achieve what I had set out to do.

It had been a fair try, though. Taking down the Omegas was no mean feat. It would at least clear the way for the Grey Wardens attached to the Orlesian forces to make an attempt on the –

A dragon's roar split the sky.

Despite myself, I trembled.

The Fifth of the Pantheon of Seven was here, to finish what the other Archdemons could not.

I craned my neck as much as I could.

God himself was descending over Denerim.

My magical abilities ruined beyond belief, I could still feel its overwhelming, incomprehensible, infinite power, radiating out over the City like the sun itself.

It felt like the air itself was choking you. It felt like drowning in an abyssal ocean. It felt like a mountain was crushing you into the ground.

So this was the power of the an Old God.

It almost made me glad that I was going to die there in the dirt.

How great my hubris was, to think that I could match that.

The darkness was creeping over me, and I didn't resist.

-(=DAO=)-

Someone was grabbing my head.

I wished that they would stop that. It hurt.

Warmth infused me. The pain disappeared, and through the corners of my blurry vision I could see cool green light.

Someone using the _Heal_ spell on me.

I could literally feel my injuries disappear.

The healing was working.

I was being pulled back from the brink of death.

Then the green light faded, and she helped me to a sitting position.

I gave Morrigan a weak smile, and said in a hoarse voice,

"Thanks. What would I do without you?"

"Die, while drooling blood into the dirt? Now keep quiet. Tis' not done."

A bright golden glow from her hands.

A _Rejuvenate_ Spell, to help my depleted mind restore its mana level.

I had come close to death. So close. Not just from the physical toll extracted by blood magic, but also from mana exhaustion.

I could feel my strength return, as Morrigan transferred her own mana into me, lending her strength to mine.

"Mana transfer? In the Circle Tower, that was a euphemism for –"

I was blathering, and I knew it. Because if I didn't I would have to think about –

"Amell, could you please shut your mouth for a few seconds? I'm trying to save you from dying from your own stupidity. Mana depletion? What kind of a third-rate mage makes such an elementary mistake?"

"A careless one."

Then I kept my silence, and let Morrigan work her magic. Once she had brought my mana up to less dangerous levels, she let the golden light fade.

"Your injuries are not fully healed. Nor is your mana anywhere close to the levels you'll need for combat. Yet –

She glanced up, a frown marring her pretty face.

"we haven't the time for any healing more comprehensive than this."

Indeed not. The Archdemon was here. The final part of the plan had to be executed.

"Tis the only way, then."

Blue light lit her hands, and she infused me with the _Regeneration_ spell. It would heal me over time – it was much less efficient than a direct healing spell, but it did its work without needing the caster's continued attention.

And finally, Morrigan used the _Mass Rejuvenation_, bathing both of us in harsh white light, and increasing the rate at which our minds drew mana in from the fade. My mana, depleted by combat, and Morrigan's, depleted from healing me from the brink of death, would recover soon enough, given sufficient time.

Morrigan stood, and helped me up onto my feet. Leaning on Morrigan somewhat, and with blue sparks of healing still dancing over my body, we headed for Fort Drakon.

As we left the square, I assiduously tried not to look back at the two corpses.

Morrigan was a fantastic healer. But she couldn't revive the dead. And what my final lightning bolt did to the Omega, it did also to...

It did not bear thinking about. The past was past, and regrets could only weigh you down and prevent you from doing what was needed.

I focused on considering what came next.

With my strength somewhat restored, the Archdemon's power no longer felt so immensely suffocating. Even so...

I glanced upwards. The Archdemon was still doing nothing, as yet, beyond blanketing Denerim with his ghastly presence of his power.

He was absolutely confident in his victory, then.

We would show him how wrong he was. We would defeat him. We would quell the blight.

I stumbled, and only Morrigan's support prevented me from having my face planted into the dirt for the second time that day.

...

Perhaps I should take things one step at a time, for now. Try to walk under my own power before trying to kill God.

We crossed cobblestone streets and climbed sets upon sets of stairs.

Ordinarily, the place would have been populated with soldiers. But everyone capable of fighting had been sent to the Alienage, and whoever remained was shut up inside Fort Drakon itself.

Finally we came to the outer gates of the Fort.

As the soldiers who manned the gates raised the portcullis to let us in, Morrigan finally broke the silence that had lingered over us. Her voice quiet, she asked the question that she had been wanting to ask since she saved me in that stone-cobbled square.

"Amell, what happened back there?"

I closed my eyes, and struggled to find the words for my answer.

"We set a trap for the Omegas, and they fell for it. I killed nine of the ten, but one survived. I managed to slay it too, eventually, but not without... casualties."

_Casualties_. What a nice, euphemistic way of putting it. Put like that, killing a friend to get to the enemy seemed terribly reasonable.

"And Loghain? I notice that he isn't here with us, after accompanying you out of the City for your little soiree. Did he fall in battle?"

Technically, he did. But it would be a lie. A lie via omission, but a lie nonetheless.

"Our assassination attempt didn't go completely as planned. I escaped... while Loghain acted the distraction."

_Distraction_. Another euphemism. Framed like that, deliberately letting a comrade die appeared quite easily justifiable.

For long seconds, Morrigan said nothing. Then, she briefly leaned her head against mine, and said,

"I am glad that you are safe. Tis all that matters to me. Nothing else does."

A warmth crept into my chest. Despite everything, I still had her. Amidst the world coming apart, there were still the two of us.

We crossed the courtyard, going up ramps and passing by statues of long-dead heroes.

The great steel doors loomed in front of us.

This was strange. They should have been open.

But they weren't.

Nor, even after a minute of waiting, were there signs that the doors were about to be opened.

Very strange. The guards on the walls knew that we were here, and word should have reached the fort proper that the doors should be opened.

"Something's wrong."

I frowned.

Morrigan tilted her head, as she considered this latest problem, and then suggested,

"I could enter the Fort with my Crow morph, and see what might be happening inside."

Ordinarily, we would do that, but...

"No time for that."

I raised a fist and gathered my magic to blow the great doors apart –

Morrigan's hand shot out and caught mine before I could do anything else.

"Wait!"

The urgency and panic in her voice stopped me.

"Amell, are you blind?"

Her anger was apparent as she pointed at the door. I myself was a mix of annoyance and confusion in the face of her sudden, incomprehensible anger.

"What _is_ it, Morrigan?"

Her anger deepened along with her frown, as she gestured towards the door again.

"Don't you _see_?"

"I have no idea what you're –"

She slapped me.

"Amell, your carelessness is going to be the death of you. How many times have I told you? Don't just touch – _feel_. Don't just hear – _listen_. Don't just look – _see_.

"Very poetic, Morrigan, but that makes absolutely no sense –"

She slapped me again.

"Would you stop –"

She slapped me again.

Evidently not.

Before I could say another word, Morrigan put a finger onto the great tower door, and pushed mana into it.

A complex web of runes lit up.

"Ah..."

I saw.

And I remembered.

Before this tower was Fort Drakon, it had a different name. Before this tower was Fort Drakon, it had a different purpose. Before this tower was Fort Drakon, it was the Shard of Urthemiel, a temple built by the Tevinter Imperium in honour of the Old God of Beauty.

And of course a structure built by the Tevinters would have magical defences commensurate to its importance.

And of course a temple to Urthemiel was very, very important indeed.

Ironic, then, or perhaps apposite, that we would kill God from within his own temple.

I examined the softly glowing blue runes, and the magic they were sustaining.

In response to any magic directed against the door, a _Mana Clash_ would be triggered. Nasty. Truly nasty.

If it weren't for Morrigan...

Which reminded me.

I turned to her.

"Thank you, Morrigan. For saving me. Again."

Morrigan shook her head. Her anger had not dissipated.

"Do you enjoy this? Doing this to me? Do you know how I felt when I saw how you were about to trigger the trap? Or when I saw lying on the ground unmoving? Or when you ran off trying to infiltrate the horde without me, heedless of the danger, and then almost dying?"

Her voice was tight.

"Being with you – being like this... it's like watching your heart running around inside someone else's body..."

She struggled to get the appropriate words out.

"Please. I wish you would care for your own well-being as much as _I_ care for it; as much as any sane person would look after themselves. Tis not too much to ask, is it?"

There was nothing I could say, or do, but apologize.

"I'm sorry."

The words sounded feeble, and were feeble, even as I spoke them.

Morrigan shook her head again. In despair? In dismissal? Who knows.

She changed the topic. We weren't the sort comfortable with our own feelings. Talking about them at length – not our idea of a good time.

"Can you read the runes? What exactly do they say?"

I looked back at the door.

The runes were Old Tevene. And as it happened, I was literate in the language, and could read the runes – albeit very slowly, and with great difficulty.

I took my time to take in the words, and understand them, before I attempted to explain them to Morrigan.

"It's a puzzle, of a sort."

I gestured to the cluster of runes located highest up the door.

"Those are the core runes, which support the main part of the spell – if someone attempts to magically assault the door, they will trigger a _Mana Clash_ against the offending mage."

Then I gestured to the paragraph of runes located below the topmost cluster.

"These are non-magical runes. They're don't support the spell. They're literally just words – here to tell us what we need to do to open the door."

I read the runes aloud.

"_Seeker, you face three paths. There is the Path to Urthemiel, which is laid with truth. Then there is the Path to Oblivion, which is laid with lies. Then there is the Path of Man, laid with both. The Path to Urthemiel is the only path forward, for all other paths lead to death._"

I pointed to three cluster of runes – left, centre and right – that were located at around eye level for us, and read then out as well.

The leftmost one was titled "_The 1__st__ Path_", and read "_The 2__nd__ Path is the Path of Man, and leads to death in the end._"

The centre one was titled "_The 2__nd__ Path_", and read "_Beware the 3__rd__ Path, for it is the Path to Oblivion, and will bring you nought but sorrow._"

The rightmost one was titled "_The 3__rd__ Path_", and read "_Rejoice, for the 1__st__ Path is the Path to Urthemiel, and by taking it you shall know eternal joy._"

I elaborated.

"Essentially, we have three choices. The so-called Path to Urthemiel is the correct one, and choosing it will cause the door to open magically. Choose wrongly, and... well, we eat _Mana Clash_."

Morrigan snorted.

"Tis what you Tower mages come up with in your spare time? Word games?"

I smiled.

"You don't sound very impressed. Which would you say is the correct answer, then?"

"Is that a challenge, Amell?"

"If you feel up to it. Just don't hurt your brain thinking too hard about it."

"Oh? Big words from the man who almost got killed by a door."

"Heh. Touche."

"Regardless, tis really simple, no?"

She extended one pale finger to point at the leftmost rune cluster.

"This one – the 1st Path – let us assume that it is the _Path to Urthemiel_. Then it would be "laid with truth", would it not? The statement it makes must be true. And since it says that the 2nd Path – the centre cluster – is the _Path of Man_, then by elimination the 3rd Path – the rightmost one – must be the _Path to Oblivion_. Yet the _Path to Oblivion _is supposed to be "laid with lies", no? So when the 3rd Path says that the 1st is the _Path to Urthemiel_, it must be lying – so the 1st Path cannot be the _Path to Urthemiel_. A contradiction arises if we assume that the 1st Path is the _Path to Urthemiel_; hence it cannot be so."

Brilliantly deduced.

Morrigan continued.

"And how about the 3rd Path? What if we assume that tis the _Path to Urthemiel_? Then what it says must be true – but what it says is that the 1st path is the _Path to Urthemiel_. Once again a contradiction arises; if we assume that the 3rd Path is the _Path to Urthemiel_, then it cannot be the _Path to Urthemiel_."

The Liar's Paradox, or at least a variant thereof.

Which left us with...

"All that remains is the 2nd path. If it is the _Path to Urthemiel_, then when it says that the 3rd path is the _Path to Oblivion_, it's telling the truth. And if the 3rd path is the _Path to Oblivion_ and thus lying, then of course the 1st Path is not the _Path to Urthemiel_, as the 3rd path claims; rather, the 1st path is the _Path of Man_, whose statement may or may not be true. In the end, we see, clear as day, that necessarily the 2nd path is the _Path to Urthemiel_; nothing else is possible."

I clapped.

"Do you want to do the honours?"

Morrigan shrugged.

She put her one hand on the large circular glyph inside the centre cluster.

With an injection of mana, the whole door glowed in response, and started opening inwards of its own accord.

Morrigan and I shared a smile, and then we headed into Fort Drakon, taking one step closer to the end we sought.

-(=DAO=)-

We did not expect this.

I'm not sure what we were expecting.

But it wasn't this.

A company of templars, one hundred strong, heavily armoured and heavily armed.

They stood before us in battle array.

No, we certainly weren't expecting this.

Then again, as we mages liked to say, no one really expects the templars to come for you, until they actually do.

A massive spike of magic behind me.

I spun around, and looked out of the entrance.

Fort Drakon sat on a hill, and from here we had a good view of the city.

I had turned just in time to see a brilliant blue-white wave of light as it exploded outwards from the Archdemon, aloft above the Alienage.

Dread gripped me.

The wave of magic intercepted the hundreds of ballistae bolts that were arching towards the dragon.

And froze them in mid-air.

But the wave didn't stop there.

Even as the frozen ballistae bolts fell from the sky, the wave washed over perhaps a kilometer-square wide area.

And for that kilometer-square – a perfect circle around the Archdemon – everything was frozen.

One moment, everything was normal; the next instance, an impossibly large area was entombed in ice.

I gritted my teeth.

If I wanted to stop what I just saw from happening again, I would have to succeed.

I turned my attention back to the templars.

I stepped forward, and spoke, my voice cold and flat,

"What is the meaning of this."

The lead templar – Knight-Commander Tavish, who else – did not seem too shaken by the Archdemon's feat of magic; or at least he did not let it show. He responded to me, his own voice hard and terrible.

"We saw what was inside the Grand Chamber. We know what you're planning to do. Warden, I did not think that even you would be so mad as to try something like this."

Ah. So they knew.

This was most troublesome. The Archdemon already here; the destruction of the city imminent; the window of opportunity to stop the Blight for once and all, closing shut.

I would make one last attempt to persuade Tavish and his templars to step aside. But if they refused...

"Knight-Commander Tavish, I am not proud of what I plan to do. But there is no other way. This will allow us to kill the Archdemon, and end the Blight. Here. Now. We will save the world from a infinity of suffering."

Tavish's horror and disgust was apparent.

"Warden, this... is... _wrong_. _Evil_. _Forbidden_ both by Maker and by mortal law. No matter what, this is utterly impermissible. How can you possibly think to do this to innocents?"

My impatience grew. I snapped back at the Knight-Commander.

"Tavish. Listen to me. If you give two shits about the lives of innocents, then surely you must see that this is justified. Some people die here, so that many more – innumerably more – can live. How are their deaths any different from sending men into battle against the darkspawn, when their consequences turn out the same?"

His face hard with revulsion, the Knight-Commander shook his head.

"Maker help you. Is there nothing you will not do? At long last, Warden, at long last –have you no shame, no decency? Are there no depths of depravity that you will not plumb? If you cannot see that this is wrong, then you are lost."

We stood there, at an impasse. I made one final attempt to resolve the situation peacefully.

"Knight-Commander Tavish. I ask you one last time. Please, let us pass."

The Knight-Commander closed his eyes, and gave his answer.

"No."

I sighed.

So be it.

My eyes caught Morrigan's.

It began.

She stepped out in front of me, and whispered,

"Stay close."

Of course. I didn't have to be told. I had no intention of being caught up in the magic that she was about to unleash.

I couldn't see the invisible, gaseous poisons that Morrigan had summoned, but they were there. Swirling around us, utterly lethal. As the templars would soon discover.

The Knight-Commander collapsed, his sense of balance removed by a _Disorient_.

His second-in-command barely managed to step forward before he gasped, and started choking on _Horror_-induced fear.

Then the air around us exploded outwards, and those templars closest to us were hit with _Sleep_, and fell – unconscious even before they hit the ground.

Some templars tried to flank us from the left, and these Morrigan caught within a _Waking Nightmare_ – once again sleep was forcibly induced, except this time the victims' unconscious minds were subjected to their greatest, darkest fears. Even when they awoke they would not be capable of combat. If they were still sane, that is.

The remaining templars had backed off – which was smart of them, considering that all around Morrigan and I were various poisonous gases which would fell a person who took in even a single breath.

But distance would not protect them. Not from magic such as this. Not from a mage such as Morrigan.

She flicked one lazy finger at the templar that was trying to flank us from the right – brave of him; he must have seen what had happened to his compatriots who tried the very same thing.

For his courage, he was rewarded by being subject to a _Life Drain_ – he screamed an inchoate scream as his body broke down under necrosis – his flesh blackening and dying with unnatural speed.

But it seemed that even his ghastly death only served to spur his fellows on. I guess that was what you got from militant religious fanatics. No matter how futile their efforts, and how hopeless their situation, they would run at death with open arms with no regrets.

And in this case Morrigan was only too happy to play to role of Death.

Yet another templar, braver and stupider than his peers, tried to charge right through at us.

Morrigan stopped him dead with a _Curse of Mortality_ – quite literally – and the templar went down in a spasm, clawing at his chest as he suffered cardiac arrest.

"Morrigan, perhaps you should stop playing around."

This battle would have ended the very second it began, if Morrigan had been even half-way serious about it.

Incredibly, she pouted in response to my chide, and then quipped,

"Yet you seemed eager enough for the _playing around_ to continue when we spent those nights together."

Unbelievable. To make such a joke, as the Archdemon wrecked the city, and as we killed a hundred men whose only real fault was a misguided sense of duty.

"Just end this."

She smiled a smile that did not reach her eyes.

"As you wish."

She casually held one hand aloft.

A globe of clear, colourless liquid formed.

_Reaper's Breath_. Morrigan's own invention – she once boasted to me that it was the deadliest poison in the world – wolfsbane; viper venom; even the Tevinter-manufactured methylphosphate _Invisible Death_ could not compare. There wasn't much that you needed, or wanted, to know about it, beyond the fact that the slightest touch of it on even skin would kill you instantly.

Morrigan let the globe explode into gas, and a _Death Cloud_ flooded the room.

The templars died – when the gas reached them, each and every one of them immediately collapsed like puppets with their strings cut.

As Morrigan worked to banish the poison mists from the air around us, so that we could cross the entrance hall and head up the tower, I mused aloud.

"Templars always expect mages to do combat with the elements – calling down fire and lightning, and the like. But..."

I glanced around the room.

"Poison kills just as quickly, and with half the fanfare."

Morrigan completed my half-finished musing for me.

"True."

Our favourite pastime – talking about ways to kill other people with magic. Morrigan and I made quite the couple.

Another massive spike of magic behind me.

I whirled around again, dreading what the Archdemon would do next.

The spell the Old God had cast exceeded even my wildest expectations.

Gigantic pillars of red-white flames, reaching from the heavens to the ground, immolating Denerim at various points.

So this was the dragon's might.

So this was the strength that made the Tevinters bow down in supplication.

The power of God, indeed.

Power I had to match. To exceed.

I was clenching my fists so tightly that my fingers hurt.

Morrigan pulled at my arm.

"Amell, we should go."

I tore my eyes away from the sight of the burning city, and let Morrigan lead me towards the stairs that we would need to take to reach the Grand Chamber at the apex of the tower.

There was no salvation to be had unless I had the strength for what came next.

Despite everything, doubt swirled within me. Did I have strength enough for this one, final task?

I did not know. But we would find out, soon enough.

-(=DAO=)-

I gasped as we finally reached the top floor of Fort Drakon.

My head was pounding with pain again.

Not a good sign.

I staggered, and had to lean against the balustrade for support.

Morrigan was staring at me, and frowning with anxiety. The longer she stared, the deeper her frown.

"Whatever's the matter? Are you still injured? Given my healing spells, tis not ... supposed to..."

She trailed off.

I rubbed at my forehead with my left hand, as my right grasped the balustrade for support.

As I massaged my pain-laced head, I could see, through the gaps between my fingers, as Morrigan's face grew pale – the blood draining from her already snow-white face, making her look ghostly in the very dim light of the antechamber we were in. I could almost see how the pieces in her mind were falling into place.

Her voice was slow and deceptively calm, as she asked,

"Amell. Have you been using blood magic?"

There was no point lying, so I answered truthfully. I muttered,

"Twice tonight. _Blood Sense_ once, to track the emissaries outside Denerim. And then _Blood Wound_, against the Omegas.

Morrigan blanched.

She was so overcome with anger that for long seconds she was left speechless. Finally, she hissed,

"Twice? _Blood Wound_? Are you trying to get yourself killed? Do you not recall what Mother told you? What –"

I murmured.

"I had no choice. I had nothing else strong enough to deal with the Omegas."

Morrigan stood there, hooded in darkness.

I watched her face with some trepidation. Her hot anger had faded, to be replaced by a terrible coldness,

"Why did you not tell me? Did you not once say that we were one, that there would be nothing between us. You..."

Because I did not want you to worry. Because it suited my purposes to keep you in the dark. Because despite my promises I am still made of lies – even now.

I leaned back, and without meeting Morrigan's eyes, said,

"After you healed me in the palace district, I felt fine. I didn't expect..."

"You didn't expect your unhealed brain injury to recur despite Mother expressly telling you it would. You _astound_ me, Amell."

She wanted to say more, but she bit back her harsh words. She put her hands onto my head, and her magic infused me as she tried to identify what exactly had gone wrong, and how it could be fixed.

From the way her eyes narrowed even further with tension and worry, I could tell that the diagnosis wasn't good.

"This is... beyond even me. Until we get you a healer skilled enough, such as Mother or that old woman at your Circle Tower, I would advise you _not_ to cast any spells. At all. Especially not blood magic."

I swatted away her hands.

"Unacceptable. Morrigan, the thrice-damned Archdemon is out there. I'm sure you've noticed by now, but I can't beat it to death with my fists. I need my magic. And even ordinary magic won't be enough. To kill an Old God, I need darker medicine. You know what that entails."

Morrigan was quiet, as she looked at me. Looked through me. He voice was utterly devoid of emotion, as she asked,

"Do you really wish to die that very much?"

I looked away.

There it was. That which divided us. No matter how close we were, how intimate we were, how much our hearts touched –

I had to tell her.

My voice barely audible, I said,

"I'll die anyway. You can only kill an Archdemon by having a Warden strike the killing blow. Otherwise, the Archdemon's soul simply escapes to the nearest darkspawn's body, and in time the dragon will respawn. By getting a Warden to deal the fatal blow, the Old God's soul will enter the Warden's body, and the resulting paradox destroys both Warden and dragon. I... am the only Warden left, and the only one with sufficient power – I have to fight – to kill the Archdemon – even if it means I die."

The last word came out as something barely above a whisper. I finished speaking, and waited for Morrigan's reaction.

But she just stood there, frowning.

Huh.

She was taking the news better than I had expected.

I had anticipated more screaming. Perhaps a slap or two. A whole lot of anger, definitely.

But Morrigan simply sighed. She looked uncertain as she finally spoke,

"I..."

She looked to be struggling with something.

When she finally managed to get her words out, they came low and fast.

"No. You needn't sacrifice yourself. There is a... spell... which allows the Archdemon's soul to be destroyed when the killing blow is struck, without the Warden having to die. I have... cast this spell. Whatever happens from here on in, know that tis not necessary that you give up your life."

I blinked.

"Well, that's... welcome news?"

In truth, I had not given much thought to the fact that I would be dying today. I have faced death far too many times, been intimate with it far too often, inflicted it on far too many people, to be overly concerned with my own.

Whatever my innumerable faults, cowardice or fear of death... wasn't one of them.

Still, I wasn't happy that I had to die – all things being equal, I would obviously choose living over dying. And if Morrigan was speaking the truth...

Of course she was. She wouldn't lie to me. Not about this.

But speaking about lies...

"But isn't it rather rich, Morrigan, that you berate me about keeping things from you, when you've kept the truth about the Archdemon from me as well? I only found out today. And not from you."

Morrigan's eyes were distant.

"At first, I didn't tell you for fear that you would shy from your duty. Then... even as I learnt about the man you were, and how you were not the kind to be deterred by such a thing – I still didn't want to add to your already existent worries."

I had no right to complain, perhaps. We were both of us liars. Trying to keep each other ignorant for their own good. Ha...

But back on topic –

"You've cast the spell that will somehow destroy the Archdemon's soul when its body is destroyed?"

Morrigan looked uncomfortable as she answered.

"Yes."

The answer was suspiciously short – she was hiding something from me.

But I did not have the time or the energy to prod her further on it. Besides, something made me feel that I did not want to know any more.

Which left the final issue of contention.

"Morrigan. Look, I'm glad that my death today isn't necessary. Really. I'm not a great fan of dying. But it remains that we have to kill the Archdemon, and that will inevitably require some dangerous magic on my part."

We had wasted enough time, as it was. I lightly brushed Morrigan aside, and started walking away across the antechamber, towards the great double doors which would open into the Grand Chamber itself.

She called out from behind me.

"And if I don't care about killing the Archdemon?"

A chill ran down my spine.

There was a blur of darkness, and suddenly Morrigan was standing in front of me. She stood, barring my way forward.

I did not like where things were heading.

"Morrigan, if we don't slay the Archdemon, and the Blight is left unchecked, millions are going to die."

"And what do I care what happens to the common sheep, Amell? They are not my concern, nor should they be yours."

"Then why have you have helped me thus far?"

She shrugged.

"Because it was your goal. And I wanted to help you achieve it."

Her eyes were hard.

"But not at the cost of your own life."

"There are plenty of things worth more than my life, or the lives of any single person."

"Not yours. Not to me."

I stared at her, and sighed – a long exhalation of exhaustion.

"It is not your choice to make, Morrigan. It's mine. Didn't you tell me earlier today that you can't protect me from my own choices?

"Well, I choose to fight. To kill the Archdemon. To die, if my death were necessary to accomplish my goal."

Morrigan smiled. It was not a pretty smile.

"Tis true that I once thought that I could not protect you from your own bad judgement.

"But I realize now that I was wrong.

"Remember that I once told you that I would build mountains from the corpses of your enemies to protect you?

"And if you turned out to be your own worst enemy? Well...

"I can always break your limbs to stop you from doing anything foolish, and heal you back up again later, can I not?"

She smiled – a smile both terrible and lovely, a smile that haunts me even now.

I realized that I was breathing heavily.

I was scared.

Of what was going to happen. I made one, last, desperate attempt to avoid it.

"Morrigan. I am asking you three times. I am asking for your sake, for I do not want to see you harmed. I am asking for mine own sake as well, for I am sick and tired of hurting the ones I love. But above all I am asking for the sake of the greater good, and for the lives that could be spared if the Blight could be quelled. Three times I ask you, three pleas I make, three reasons I offer. For the love you bear me, hear me – please, _step aside_."

Her eyes were cool, and dark, and lit with a conviction that burnt hotter than any fire. She gave her answer.

"No, my love."

So it had come to this. We spoke, but did not hear. Our words reached the other's ears, but not their mind, nor their heart. Words had failed, and when words failed, we would have to turn to violence.

We would settle things as things have been settled since the dawn of creation – with the crimson spilling of blood.

I whispered,

"Come, then."

She came.

She disappeared into a swirl of darkness, and suddenly there was a giant spider launching itself at me with inhuman speed.

So I too dodged with preternatural speed of my own.

I triggered _Godspeed_, and whirled away, my speed and agility elevated to impossible levels. The giant spider passed though where I was but a fraction of a second ago.

The spells of the ancient Arcane Warriors of Elvhenan, stolen from the ruins of the Brecilian forest – powerful, but something I was only just mastering.

I would have preferred not to rely on such untested, unfamiliar magic.

But I had no choice. I could not hope to match Morrigan's shapeshifting magic without using extraordinary magic of my own, and with blood magic not being an option – well, all that was left to me was the strange magic of the Arcane Warriors.

And I was thankful that I had it.

By the dead, Morrigan was so devastatingly _fast_.

The spider had morphed into a wolf, which leapt for me.

An arcane bolt took it in the face, but it simply slipped into that form of swirling darkness, and what emerged –

A spotted leopard, which continued its charge towards me.

I made the ground underneath it explode, shredding the animal with shrapnel –

But again it simply slipped into that shifting mass of black –

This time it was a jaguar from the jungles of Arlathan.

It was coming in close – too close for comfort.

Invisible telekinetic blades howled into existence, ripping the jaguar apart –

But once again, to my frustration, it dissipated into the liquid nothingness.

A cheetah, a large cat that prowled the plains of the Anderfels, exploded out at me; fast as nothing else was, it burst forward, its jaws extended –

To smack headfirst into a force field.

With a blink, I sent a telekinetic blast rippling outwards, but once again with a shift into that ineffable phantasmic darkness –

The hummingbird that emerged was so fast that it managed to avoid my point blank attack.

My eyes squinted with the effort of concentration as I summoned invisible, telekinetic rods in an attempt to skewer the bird.

Agile though it was, there were limits to how it could move and change directions in mid air.

But –

A monkey emerged, screaming and screeching. With incomprehensible agility and dexterity, it avoided each and every rod, swinging to and fro, dodging and evading – _how on earth was it doing it, given that they were invisible_?

As if to add insult to injury, by using one of my own summoned weapon as leverage, it swung around at me.

Only to morph promptly into a giant river python.

Shit.

I drew more mana in from the Fade, to boost my own speed, and barely managed to evade the python's attempt to constrict me.

Twitching a finger, I ripped a sword out the grip of one of the suits of armour lining the antechamber.

It flew towards me and I caught it in my right hand

I briefly considered using a _Mana Clash_, but dismissed the idea almost immediately.

I was not so far gone. I had limits. Yes, even I had lines that I would not cross.

This was one of them. I would not use a fatal spell. Not on her.

Besides, it probably wouldn't even work. Not on a mage of her power. Not on a Witch of the Wilds.

So instead, I sent a current of disruptive magic into the sword – not as deadly as a full-on Mana Clash, but it would serve the purpose of burning up the mana within any enemy it cut, and interfering with its spellcasting.

Hopefully, this would stop her annoying, incessant shapeshifting.

I brought the sword around in a blaze of speed, trying to cut into the python.

Only for it to transform once again.

Into nothing?

No. A fly.

It zipped around, and I was completely incapable of hitting it. Every sword swing, boosted to ungodly speeds, was utterly unable to even touch this pest of an insect.

Then it was an insect no longer.

A gigantic bear reared up in front of me, roaring its rage, before slamming a clawed paw into my chest.

I was rammed into a wall.

Urgh.

The air around me wavered and glimmered.

I had barely managed to bring up the _Shimmering Shield_ – which granted me supernatural durability.

It didn't make me invulnerable, mind you.

The blow still hurt.

Like being punched in the kidneys.

Best not let that happen again.

I brought my sword up, and triggered _Combat Magic_. I felt inhuman strength enter my muscles. I felt like I could punch through stone.

Probably because I could.

I brought the sword down in a swing, but before it could bisect the bear, the animal disappeared, morphing into a flying swarm.

I reacted immediately, reversing my slash to send out an arc of fire against the mass of insects.

My attack connected, but not on the fire-vulnerable insects – instead, it scratched the hide of a large bronto.

Tch.

I should have made my flames stronger, if only so it couldn't be shrugged off by an animal with a moderately tough hide.

The bronto charged at me, and mid-charge, it suddenly twisted in mid-air to become a deepstalker.

Its wormlike head, with a circular mouth ringed with sharp teeth, snaked out towards me.

I froze it mid-jump, and it stumbled.

Electricity danced on the tip of my sword.

I thrust, and lightning burst out.

But I wasn't quick enough, it seemed

An eel arced out in mid air, and by acrobatically folding over itself – it dodged, with a clumsy efficiency, the bolt of electricity.

Huh.

I recalled Morrigan once telling me that there was a kind of fish that could detect electricity.

And combined with all the intelligence of a human, did it manage to anticipate where I was about to fire my attack, and evade pre-emptively?

Impressive.

But perhaps it was no time to be impressed.

A massive gorilla emerged as my next opponent.

It raised a fist that was bigger than my head, and punched.

I met it with a punch of my own.

But one of stone, not of flesh.

A rock slammed into the gorilla, caving its chest in and propelling it backwards.

Which made me overconfident. I did not expect the gorilla to dissipate and for the next morph – a tiger – to emerge with such speed.

My mistake.

I would not be making it again.

I brought my sword up in a flick, and icy wind howled out in a curved half-moon, stopping the tiger in its track.

Again I swung my sword, this time to launch a ball of fire against the trapped animal.

No matter what it turned into, it would not escape unscathed –

Or perhaps it would.

The giant turtle turned one insolent eye at me as it emerged from its shell, having shrugged off my attack while looking no worse for the wear.

Something was not right.

My attacks were weaker – much weaker than I had primed them to be.

Was maintaining the Arcane Warrior's magic taking a toll on my ability to freely cast other spells?

Let us test that hypothesis.

Lightning lit my sword again, and I sent it arching out again, this time in an indiscriminate stream.

The turtle disappeared into a swirl of darkness, and a giant Par Vollen lizard-dragon emerged, snarling at me.

The stream of lightning hit the lizard –

And it seemed to barely feel it.

Hmm.

Perhaps the Arcane Warrior's magic really was interfering with my normal spellcasting, especially my fire and lightning attacks.

But I couldn't simply stop using the spells that were boosting my physical capabilities.

Without them, I could easily be overwhelmed with speed – and if I took even a single glancing blow, it would be over – not to mention the shapeshifted animals would have no compunction with closing the distance with me if I did not have enhanced strength as a deterrence.

This was quite the quandary.

And attacks were still incoming.

This time it was a horse, racing across me, covering the distance –

I stomped the floor, and a light tremor shook the room.

The horse stumbled.

But the real magic of shapeshifting meant that the caster could never really be caught off-guard.

The stumbling horse turned into a roaring lion.

I tried a bit of complex magic.

With a whisper, I attempted to turn the lion to stone –

And only succeeded in doing so to its huge, admittedly very impressive mane.

The partial transmutation was nonetheless effective. The lion suddenly found a huge stone collar about its neck, and the weight of it caused the animal to crash into the ground.

Time to pull out the stops.

A halo of lightning surrounded me.

I sent bolt after bolt arcing out, striking forth –

But the red-tailed hawk that the lion had shifted into was managing to avoid each of my strikes.

This said less of its speed and agility than it did about my lack of control.

I was struggling to direct the lightning – where ordinarily I would be as an archer, skilfully landing shot after shot, here I was like the village idiot casting stones at a stray dog – and missing.

Perhaps brute force might work where finesse failed.

It seemed that my opponent was thinking the same.

An elephant. It was enormous, with a trunk thicker than my body, and a bulk that dwarfed me. I had never seen a bigger animal – save for the dragons themselves.

And it was charging at me.

It felt less like an animal than a force of nature.

So it would only be appropriate if I called up the forces of nature myself.

Freezing wind howled within the antechamber. It was the poorest approximation to a blizzard I could manage.

Still, by icing over the floor, it caused the monstrous beast to slip. I managed to scramble out of the way as the four-legged monster slid across the frozen floor and crashed into a bunch of suits of armour.

The cold winds faded, as I called up my last, best hope.

Flames licked around me, growing in strength and intensity as I fed them with mana.

As with the blizzard, this inferno I was summoning was a pale imitation of what I had used at Ostagar to destroy the horde.

But it would be enough.

I sent the raging flames against my fallen foe.

I maintained the inferno was long as I could, but my magic being weakened as it was, the firestorm lasted mere seconds.

As it cleared –

I saw a giant, hulking beast simply standing there.

Not as large as the elephant, but it was armoured from head to rear.

Was this a rhinoceros? A distant cousin of the bronto, it was just as huge, but even more heavily armoured, and far, far meaner.

My strongest spell, and it had barely scorched the brute before me.

What now?

Frustration bit at me.

Here I was, exhausting the last of my magic, to no effect.

The real problem was that I was utterly untrained in physical combat – in the way of the sword.

I knew enough to know that the purpose of the exercise was to stick the pointy end into the enemy, while avoiding getting stabbed yourself.

But that wasn't enough. I didn't need to be Ser Cauthrien, but as it was I didn't even have the training of a ten-year old squire.

And without the skills to engage in close combat, my physical augmentations were largely wasted, largely useless.

Morrigan seemed to have come to the same conclusion.

She had reverted to her human form, and was standing there, cool and collected as ever.

Not even a single strand of hair was out of place.

The Terror of the Korcari Wilds. Her reputation was well-earnt.

She smiled, half-mocking, half-playful.

She was toying with me.

I truly couldn't match her – not without blood magic, and not without the skill to use my Arcane magic to the fullness of their potential.

But I had one last trick to play.

I would rather not use it, but then again we don't always get our way in life, do we?

Morrigan walked towards me, slowly and deliberately.

"Is that it, Amell? And I haven't even displayed the full extent of what a _Master Shapeshifter _can do."

I didn't bother responding.

"Shall I show you?

"I hope you won't object to a bit of... rough frolicking."

Then she blazed forward with speed far surpassing anything else she, or I, had shown thus far.

The world narrowed down to her, me and the shrinking distance between us.

She closed in, in a heartbeat, and a pale fist jabbed out –

And passed right through my stomach.

I glowed with the blue light of the _Fade Shroud_ – by shifting my body into the Fade temporarily, I could effectively turn ethereal when attacks connected, and avoid them.

My trump. Dangerous, for physical objects are corrupted and destroyed by prolonged contact with the raw fade.

But I used it nonetheless, for intangibility was simply too great a combat advantage to pass up.

To Morrigan's credit, it didn't phase her at all.

The momentum of her dash carried her through me, and using that momentum, she spun around, bring her left hand about in a slash at my head.

Which again passed through me.

Which was good, because the power behind that attack could have knocked me across the room.

I counterattacked.

Turning, I flicked my sword out –

And Morrigan caught the edge of my blade with the back of her hand.

What.

Did she have durability to match her speed and strength as well?

I was starting to get the feeling that perhaps the physical augmentations granted me by the Arcane Warriors' magic was not as unique as they had first appeared to be.

Morrigan frowned.

I swung the sword around, once, twice, thrice. Downwards cut, backhanded flick, swing around to try to –

But Morrigan dodged and weaved and evaded all of my slashes with an effortless, insouciant grace.

It was as if she was anticipating all of my attacks in advance.

Tch.

It was impossible to land a blow.

It was like trying to catch a bird in flight. It was like grasping air. Like chasing shadows.

The Queen of Air and Darkness, indeed.

As she danced away from my attacks, Morrigan's frown deepened.

She spoke, all levity in her voice gone.

"Amell, that intangibility... are you jaunting your body into the Fade?"

So she had noticed.

"So what if I am?"

Her eyes narrowed into slits.

"You fool. That's as good as blood magic. Are you trying to kill yourself?"

Not really, no. But it wasn't for a lacking of trying. Already the few jaunts I had made into the raw fade was making my body burn with a sharp pain, like a thousand daggers under the skin.

But even worse than the pain was the frustration. God, this was such a waste. Us fighting each other as the Archdemon burnt the city to the ground.

I had to end this.

An idea came to me, brutal and utterly unscrupulous.

"Morrigan, this wouldn't be happening if –"

I fell to my knees, my left hand barely stretching out in time to stop me from planting face first into the ground. I gave a half-retching, half-choking cough. Blood dripped out of my mouth from where I had bitten my tongue.

"Amell!"

Morrigan's scream ripped through the antechamber, as she saw me fall.

The green glow of a healing spell emanated from her right hand even as she scrambled towards me –

She knelt before me, her hands cradling my head –

And I looked up, and whispered a silent apology, and brought my blade up in a thrust –

Her eyes wide with shock and relief and betrayal and a thousand other conflicting emotions, her left hand shot out to block my attack –

But the intangible blade passed right through her palm –

And buried itself up to the hilt in her abdomen.

"_Oh._"

Her blood was warm and sticky against my face.

"No. No. _No._"

Morrigan wrenched the sword out with a viciousness I did not expect.

"Amell,_ what have you done._"

Her words were biting gasps.

Her hands shaking, she directed the flickering green light against the wound.

I was shaking. I was numb. I was –

Empty.

So in the end it turns out that there were no limits to what I was willing to do? Taking advantage of my lover's concern for me – no, not even that was beyond me.

But Morrigan would be fine. It was a minor wound. Her magic could heal her.

"You'll be fine,"

I murmured. Was it to convince her, or me?

Morrigan spat venom at me.

"It is not _my_ wound, you fool. The _child_ –"

My heart went still. Dread as cold as a winter night gripped me. I –

I...

I picked myself up from the ground, and straightened up.

The blade in my hand I gripped tightly.

I had to defeat the Archdemon, enemy of all life.

So I killed my heart.

And banished all emotions.

And left myself cold and empty and without imperfection.

I would be as sharp and flawless and deadly as the blade in my hand.

I would walk the icy road forward.

I would reach the mountaintop of victory, everything else be damned.

I left Morrigan to her desperate attempts at healing.

I crossed the antechamber

I pushed open the doors.

I entered the Grand Chamber.

All around me elves, evacuated from the Denerim Alienage, slumbered in peaceful sleep, courtesy of Morrigan's magic.

Why elves, you might ask?

Simple.

Because elves have a stronger unconscious connection to the Fade than did humans.

I had a choice. The hardest choice I had ever faced in my life. A choice of blood.

But.

I had already crossed all lines, sunk so deep, fallen so far. I had betrayed an ally, and by my machinations let him die. I had abandoned a friend, and by my own hands killed her. I had slit the belly of the woman I loved most in the world, and possibly also killed my unborn child.

Do you truly think that there is nothing I will not do? No line I will not cross? No crime I will not commit? No evil will not effect? No price I will not pay? No burden I will not bear? No sacrifice I will not make?

There is no salvation without sacrifice. No miracles without misery. No happily ever after without first making your offerings at the altar of blood. The road to heaven is paved with corpses. I could save untold millions from the Blight. What did I care if I had to step over a few more bodies to do it?

So.

I chose. I chose as I always did, and always will. I chose the greater good, and killed some so that more may live.

I triggered the _Blood Sacrifice_.

I broke the minds of the thousand slumbering elves.

And from the pieces I drew upon the infinite power of the Fade.

An unearthly glow lit the room.

Golden light emanated from the eyes of my slumbering sacrifices.

Shining globes of raw mana rose from their bodies, like innumerable fireflies in a silent forest grove.

They converged onto me, and filled me with power.

Power as I have never felt before.

Power enough to slay God.

I strode through the room, my footsteps echoing, and made for the stairs that led up to the rooftop of Fort Drakon.

I ascended.

Each step brought me closer to the end.

Upwards I went, to meet my high and lonely destiny.

The night air was cold.

To the edge I headed.

I climbed atop the battlements, and looked out upon the city.

The Archdemon was flying towards me.

So it had sensed the threat.

A violet glow lit the inside of the dragon's mouth.

A gravity-warping attack of some sort.

Capable of destroying the city.

It should have used that earlier on, but in its arrogance it failed to do so.

I looked at the dragon.

It was so small. So insignificant. Where once its magical strength felt so vast as to be as the sun itself, now I couldn't even feel a thing.

Come.

Come, Dragon.

Come, Archdemon in the Pantheon of Seven.

Come, Old God of Beauty.

Come to me.

Come and die.

Come and drown in the sea of blood that I have spilled _just for you_!

I infused the sword I had in hand with all my power, all my might. I poured everything I had into the blade. I forced every last bit of magic into the edge that would cut God.

A golden brilliance lit the night sky.

Urthemiel roared, and the world-eating torrent of violet light spilled forth from his massive jaws.

But where the Archdemon's spell was fuelled only by his own puny strength –

Mine was cast from a thousand broken bodies and a sacrifice that would not be denied.

I brought the sword down in a slash.

Violet luster and golden radiance clashed.

The evil of the blight met the darkness of the human heart.

Humanity won, of course. For the evil of the blight was always but a pale shadow cast by the true darkness within us.

The heavens split asunder.

And the dragon disappeared, consumed by the burning light of victory.

And the ground below me collapsed in a waterfall of rock and rubble.

The dragon was vanquished, and the dragon-slayer fell.

As the world was reduced into nothingness around me, I felt no elation. No joy. No triumph. I felt nothing. I was nothing. My strength spent, my heart

_breaks_. My mind

_fractures_. And my soul

_shatters_.

-(=DAO=)-

What happened after that I need not tell you; you found me, lying in the ruins; you healed me, so that I could be brought to trial, and so that you could learn the truth – and you have – for now you know how I earned my third and final epithet – _Blight-Queller_ – which even in the prison you are holding me in I can hear being whispered by the sympathetic guards. Heroism, even the ruthless sort, is easily admired. Sacrifices are easy to swallow, when you're not the one called upon to make them.

And that is the story of how I slew the Archdemon with my magic to quell the blight itself – at a price paid in blood.

And there you have it. The truth, in all its naked glory. Why you had to dig the corpses of a thousand elves out from the rubble of Fort Drakon. Why there is a rift in the Veil that divides the world above from the world below. Why the Black City itself is even now visible in the skies above Denerim. I confess. It was me. All me. And I regret it not one bit.

-(=DAO=)-

Grand Inquisitor, you accuse me of effecting an enormity, as evil as nothing else in history ever was! I say that I sneaked into the heart of the horde to assassinate a hundred darkspawn emissaries; I matched the mighty Omegas in magical combat and came out victorious; I slew the Archdemon with my magic to quell the blight itself. By what _right_ does this sanctimonious congregation of cowards judge me for doing what I had to do?

-(=DAO=)-

There is a city, dead and broken and shattered by blight and blood magic.

In the city, there is a room, vast and dark and silent.

In the room, there is a man who welcomes the blissful release of death.

-(=DAO=)-

A/N (15-12-2014):

5\. Finally done, with the third and final part. Much later than promised, but what can you do – life is hard. I hope you guys enjoy it, because I don't think I'll ever write anything better. And if I learnt one thing about myself, it's that I'm a far, far better writer of politics and battles of wit than of combat.

6\. Epilogue will be out sometime this week – it'll be pretty important, as the setup for a potential sequel. And truthfully I think that the epilogue will be far superior to many parts of this story – it was one of the first scenes I came up with, and aside from a few parts (the Fade; the Escape; the Chantry; the Rooftop; the Meetings) for which I felt truly inspired while writing, I think the epilogue will be better than the rest of the actual story.

7\. Aside from an epilogue, I'll also be compiling and publishing my notes on the story. Anyone with questions is welcome to ask them, and I'll try to include answers in my notes, to tie up all loose ends. Just make a review, either on DLP or on FFNet.


	6. Epilogue - The Grand Inquisitor

**.  
Blight-Queller  
**_Epilogue  
_The Grand Inquisitor

-(=DAO=)-

The room is cozy and bright and the chirping of birds can be heard outside.

He is thin and haggard and has dark circles shadowing his eyes.

The woman sitting across him is small and cute and has an impish smile.

The room looks nothing like a prison.

Nor does he look anything like the man who quelled the blight.

Nor does the woman look anything like the Inquisitor whose brilliance has crushed the enemies of the Chantry, blood mages and rogue templars alike.

But in truth they are exactly those very things which they seem not to be.

For the room is a prison; and he is the Blight-Queller himself; as is she the Grand Inquisitor.

They are all object lessons – in the fact that some things are not what they seem.

"Grand Inquisitor, to what do I own the _tremendous_ pleasure of your visit?"

The heaviest of irony dripped from his lips, but she just ignored it, and simply smiled.

It was a wide, wicked smile, full of teeth and unsubtle suggestiveness.

It made people uncomfortable.

Doubtlessly she knew that.

And doubtlessly that was why she did it.

The Grand Inquisitor spoke, her voice light and warm and friendly.

"I have an offer to make you. Are you interested, _Amell the Genocide_?"

His eyes narrowed a fraction, and he said, in a monotone,

"The Genocide?"

"The darkspawn gave it to you, did they not? You said as much yourself. And what a fantastic name it is."

His eyes were like flints now, and his voice correspondingly cold and flat.

"How so."

"Why, don't you remember your High Tevene? The word _genocide_ means the destruction of a people, in whole or in part. And I'm sure you'll agree that the killing of a thousand elves – the entire population of the Denerim Alienage – would count, no?"

He didn't respond, but let his glare speak more eloquently for his anger than words ever could.

She was poking him, probing him.

She did it because it would reveal weaknesses.

And weaknesses could be exploited.

But two could play at that game.

"Genocide? A term not to be thrown about lightly, but I suppose you would choose to use it, wouldn't you? After all, you of all people must find what I did at Fort Drakon abominable. As a member of the Chantry, for breaking its first and most solemn law. As an elf, for using your people as tools. But above all..."

Here he gives a smile, cold and thin.

"As a former Tevinter slave, for using the exact kind of magic your masters would have used on you."

He expects her to frown, to snap back, to be angry – but she doesn't. Instead, she gives a slight smile.

"Interesting. Why do you think that I was once a slave in Tevinter?"

"It was obvious. At least to me. You're an elf, with a trace of a Tevinter accent, so sheer dumb probability makes it a good bet that you were once a slave yourself. From the way you speak it's also quite apparent that you're educated, but of course most people, let alone elves, aren't fortunate enough to receive an education... unless they're a Tevinter Magister's slaves, who are sometimes made to serve their master in secretarial roles too sensitive to trust to freemen – one's own property is least likely to betray you, no? But also..."

He points to her throat.

"I believe I see the faint shadow of a scar from a slave collar."

He finishes his explanation.

And she bursts into a great, wide smile.

She looks genuinely happy.

It was most discomfiting.

"Wonderful! A brilliant attempt! Someone not as clever as me might even have fallen for it. Now..."

Her grin widens.

"... why don't you tell me how you actually came to believe that about me?"

He considers her, and then shrugs, mentally.

"I heard the guards speak about you. Guard duty isn't the most interesting thing in the world, so they talk a fair bit. There – nothing much to it. And since I've been good enough to tell you that... it's your turn to tell me how you knew – or suspected – that I didn't actually deduce your personal history merely from your appearance."

He didn't think it was even physically possible, but her grin widened again. Of course. She is all too happy to show off, and perhaps to mock him in the bargain.

"It was obvious. At least to me. My legend isn't nearly as famous as yours, of course, but still word gets around, and as you've said yourself, bored guards are like old women at the market – they do enjoy gossiping.

"And besides, I've never worn a slave collar in my life. Most slaves do; but my master –"

Here her mouth twisted somewhat.

"– never saw the need for it. When you mentioned it, I knew that chances were you were simply trying to fool me."

Her smile returned.

"Your eyes were telling too. Did you know? The dilation of a person's pupils are an unfailing indication of the amount of cognitive effort they are engaged with at that very moment. If you're just doing something relatively easy, like holding ordinary conversation, then the pupils of your eyes shouldn't have increased in size at all. On the other hand, if you're doing something mentally strenuous, like multiplying large numbers without the benefit of pen and paper... or like trying to deduce someone's personal history merely from their appearance... well, then they do dilate, from the stress and in proportion to the mental effort being made. Yours didn't. Which suggested that you were pulling metaphorical shit out of your metaphorical ass – trying to pretend that you could conjure the details of my past out of thin air, so as to unsettle me."

Her smile was smug. Insufferably so. The last time he had seen a smile so smug it was many months ago, when he last looked into a mirror.

Fair enough – there was plenty for her to be smug about. Even he was impressed. The rumours weren't unfounded, then. The genius of Val Royeaux. As brilliant as she was whispered to be.

But...

"What do you want, Grand Inquisitor? Having this little battle of wits – which I graciously concede defeat in to you – was an amusing diversion, but you didn't come here just for that, did you?"

"No."

She scrunched her face up a little, and played with her hair, twisting it around her finger, as she considered how to best phrase her next words.

"As I said earlier on, I have an offer.

"I will spare your life, and let you live despite what you did.

"And in return, you will help me to vanquish a great evil – an evil greater than any other – the greatest evil, in fact, that the world has ever seen."

Silence met her proclamation.

His voice quiet, he says,

"You cannot possibly mean that. Not after how far I've fallen; not after all the evil I've done; not after the mountain of corpses that I've made. Do you honestly expect me to believe that you – you of all people – will just let me go?"

Her smile had faded. She said mildly,

"Really? Is it so surprising? If I were the vindictive sort, I would have thought that letting you live is by far the most satisfying punishment. After all, your magic is gone. I wonder how it must feel – to be as powerful as a god one instance, and the next to be but a mere mortal?"

It was true. Just as Morrigan had warned him. His great victory over the Archdemon was achieved by the most dangerous piece of magic in history. And dangerous magic has its price. He had broken his own mind, and though the healers had managed to fit the pieces back together to keep him alive, his shattered connection to the Fade was beyond saving.

The Grand Inquisitor let him mull over that point for a few seconds.

Then she continued, with her wicked smile back in full force.

"And perhaps I've taken a liking to you? You're a bastard, but not unentertaining. You aren't as completely heartless as I would have thought, which was a pleasant surprise. You're arrogant, but then so am I – and if I disliked people for having too much pride, then I'll have to hate myself most of all, and truth be told I'm not a great purveyor of self-loathing."

Now her voice dropped to a near-whisper, barely audible. Unconsciously, he leaned forward to hear her.

"And maybe – just maybe – I sympathize with what you did, and why you did it?"

His eyes went wide. He couldn't quite believe his ears. He shook his head, and asked,

"Truly? You agree? That it's right to do evil so as to bring about the greater good, and all that?"

He laughed, a laughter that was bitter and harsh.

The Grand Inquisitor replied, her voice as level as ever.

"Why not? If I recall correctly, when I said, during the trial, that the Rite of Tranquillity is a necessary evil, you accused me of being just the same as you. "_We two are not so very different after all_" were the exact words you said. And how true they were. I've buried my own hands in blood myself, for the best of purposes."

He smiled. Unlike hers, it was not a pleasant smile. It was the smile of self-loathing and schadenfreude.

"Ah! So you're one of us. One of the monsters that dwell here –"

He waved one hand about.

"– in the depths. How are you finding the moral abyss? It's dark in here, isn't it?"

She inclined her head, as if in agreement.

"Dark, yes. But someone has to be here. If everyone lives out there in the light who is going to keep the monsters in the shadows at bay?"

He considered her, for long seconds.

Finally, he spoke. Again his voice was quiet, and without inflection.

"Perhaps you really are making this offer in all earnestness. But what makes you think I'll accept it?

"I am tired. So very tired. I have quelled the blight and saved lives beyond counting. I have strived so very long for this singular goal and I have finally achieved it. There is nothing I will ever do that will be even a fraction as important as what I've already done. My life is over. There is nothing left of me, least of all anything that can help you."

She took in his words, her eyes closed as if deep in thought. Then she opened them, and, tilting her head, giving a small, sad smile, asked,

"Do you really wish to die that very much?"

He gasped – a sharp intake of breath made as if he was in pain.

That... was something Morrigan had said to him. In one of their last conversations, no less.

How _dare_ this woman...

Anger was good. Anger made you feel justified, feel right. Anger kept the regrets and self-doubt at bay. But the anger that he wished would surface failed to come. For the blade had cut too deep, and felt too much like truth.

The Grand Inquisitor continued speaking, her voice mercilessly calm and utterly reasonable.

"Live. There is still a world out there to be experienced. A million things to be done and tried. Joy and sadness, success and failure, love and regret. So live."

_Close. She is so close._

Then she leaned forward, and put a hand on his chest. He would have pushed her away, but then she looked him in the eyes and said,

"Besides, you do not have my leave to die. Not yet. You owe me, Amell."

Despite his mouth feeling as if it were paralyzed, he murmured,

"What do you mean? I owe you nothing."

"Yes, you do. Because..."

And here she slid out of her chair, and, almost straddling him, pushed her face up close to his, and whispered,

"_I forgive you_. Know that, even if the whole world hates you, I alone do not blame you for what you did. I accept you, sins and guilt and recriminations all."

He choked up. Shaking his head, he hissed,

"There is _nothing_ to forgive. I did what I had to! It was _justified!_"

That last word was strangled. Even to his ears it sounded hollow.

And in response, she invaded his personal space even further. Now she actually straddled him, her face so close to his that their lips almost touched –

"Perhaps it was. And so your mind tells you, but your heart fails to listen, doesn't it? Thus the nightmares, thus the guilt, thus that unrelenting nagging doubt at the back of your mind that no amount of rationalization can banish. I know because I've felt it before myself. I know you're experiencing it too. And I know that I'm the only one who can save you from it."

"I –"

He couldn't speak.

And she continued. With every word she spoke, her breath tickled him like kisses in the wind.

"So I forgive you. Despite being the Chantry's most devoted servant, and its greatest weapon. Despite being an elf, like one of your thousand victims. Despite being a slave who has had her own painful and humiliating and horrifying experiences with blood magic. _I_. _forgive_. _you_."

His vision was blurry, and it took him some time to realize that he was crying. Him. Crying. He could not even remember the last time he had cried. Had he ever? Not that he could remember. Not when he immolated his father, nor when he killed his friends, nor when he stabbed his lover. Yet now... the tears in his eyes could not be denied. All the pent up emotions of the past six months and of the long years before, came pouring out all of a sudden, in that one instance. He sobbed, and wept, and cried. Whether it was catharsis or mental breakdown, he could not say.

She hugged him.

Which meant that he didn't catch the quirking of her lips. The way her ears twitched. The look in her eyes.

They all said one thing.

_You are mine now, body and soul._

And now came the final touch.

She continued speaking, her mouth by his ear, her voice pouring into him like sweet music, like a drug that could not be resisted, like water to a man thirsty and lost in the desert.

"And above all, Amell, you are bound by duty and high principle to help me. To use your favourite phrase – this is for the greater good. If you refuse, then you are admitting that pursuing the greater good is not the only thing that matters..."

And if he did that, it would mean admitting that what happened in Denerim was not necessary ruthlessness, but despicable evil.

And of course he could never admit that.

He sat there, looking at her, but not truly _seeing_ her. Finally he muttered,

"So what is this great evil you keep harping on about?"

She smiled.

_Hers, now and forever._

-(=DAO=)-

A/N: Been trying and failing to get this uploaded to FFNet this whole week. Remember to read and review, and ask any questions that you want answered.


	7. Notes - From the Author

**.  
Blight-Queller  
**_Notes_  
From the Author

-(=DAO=)-

Once again, thank you to everyone who read my story. Especial thanks to those who cared enough to review it, or favorite it, or put it on alert. You guys know who you are.

-(=DAO=)-


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